Strawberry Fields Forever

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Original Beatles fan art by Matthew Heisler

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?" 

Yer Blues

Richard Furnstein: A cry from the bottom of a well. John set "Yer Blues"--his exorcism of the unholy spirits that were increasingly consuming his hairy figure--in the leaking swamps of the Mississippi Delta. Sure, he could downplay this brutal testament of self-loathing and suicidal thoughts as nothing more than a Clapton-infused bit of searing blues, but the truth was closer to a drooling hellhound that greeted Lennon in each of his junkie dreams. John and the boys ambled into the closet-sized EMI Studio 2 Annexe to record "Yer Blues." While it's easy to construe this as an effort to instill unity into the fractured and independent White Album sessions, I think the Annexe was chosen to limit the external energy in the recording session. The Devil can't sit in on mouth harp if he can't fit in the room. Barghest himself can't beg for the crumbs of Lennon's shattered soul in such conditions.

The listener conjures a mental image of a wracked, tortured man writhing on the floor while his erstwhile buddies stare blankly ahead and plod their way through this ponderous dirge, not even acknowledging the situation.

Robert Bunter: If you look at the rapid arc of the Beatles’ career with hindsight, their startlingly accelerated rate of development seems obvious. In a mere two years they’d taken the quantum leap from “I’m Happy Just To Dance With You” to “Tomorrow Never Knows,” for example. A closer look, however, reveals an unsettling parallel side development: the harrowing, rapid descent of the John-figure into hell. Recall that “Yer Blues” appeared in 1968, a mere four years after most of the world had met the man. He’d always seemed kind of intense; even his early love songs were uncomfortably raw. Seemingly seconds later, his insecurities were illustrated more vividly during his 1965 Dylan phase as he sings about being a loser with “a chip on my shoulder that’s bigger than my feet.” During the psychedelic period his demons seemed to have been temporarily stoned into submission by the shifting perspectives and blurry colors of chemically-expanded mind-dreams, but even here, the despair and dementia were never far from the surface on tracks like “Strawberry Fields Forever” and “A Day In The Life.” A year later, we’re confronted with lyrics like “The eagle picks my eye / the worm he licks my bone” and “black cloud crossed my mind / blue mist surrounds my soul.” Makes Robert Johnson sound like Keanu Reaves!

 Richard Furnstein: Great point. Lennon went from harmless self-pity ("I'm A Loser") to actually admitting suicidal thought. It's just startling that Lennon would sink to the worm-lickin' depths of loneliness in the lilac gardens of India after finding his true love. His gentle moping on Beatles For Sale or Help! suggested a sensitive man going through an identity crisis--caught between the boredom of his house husband phase and the relentless mania of The Beatles' touring life. As usual, Lennon blames his dark mental state on childhood woes. He presents his parents as the angel and devil on his shoulders. His mother was an angelic spirit "of the sky" while his loathsome father, hapless seaman Freddie Lennon, was vulnerable to earthly temptations and sins. Lennon cast himself, the product of this failed union, as "of the universe." Where he once lamented that no one was in his tree, now John is floating alone in the cosmos. But wait, John realized that his best friends in the world were there with him. Lovable and shouty Paul, reliable and handsome George, and loyal and funny Ringo were there to help him through this rough patch. That's the beauty of "Yer Blues." John assembled his best friends in the world into a tiny closet to grunt out a searing rock number. Maybe he even fit a stool into the room for pie-faced friend Mal Evans! Do you guys want to grab a pint and some chips after this one? It's like the old days. Woops, sorry I bumped your ride cymbal, Ringo. It's like being back in the Cavern!  

Robert Bunter: Yeah, you’d think so. But that’s what makes the line “Feel so suicidal / even hate my rock and roll” so devastating. The cathartic, soul-cleansing power of music which was once redemptive for John has soured; he looks at the three other faces in the cramped studio closet and tries to see his rockin’ buddies from the leather jacket days, but his fevered mind can’t focus the image. There’s Paul with his dumb eyebrows and stupid Ob-La-Di song, George’s pocked skin and offensive moustache stinking up the room with curry breath; even Ringo’s hangdog mug seems distorted and offensive. The tiny recording space mirrors the desperate psychic box that John finds himself in; there’s no escape. The effect is heightened when he screeches the reprise of the verse off-mic; the listener conjures a mental image of a wracked, tortured man writhing on the floor while his erstwhile buddies stare blankly ahead and plod their way through this ponderous dirge, not even acknowledging the situation. This is the moment where the Beatles broke up. Finally, the gentle, fresh acoustic breeze of Paul’s “Mother Nature’s Son” wafts softly in as the cramped, stinky room of “Yer Blues” fades into silence. Abbey Road boasts a similar moment, when George’s airy “Here Comes The Sun” warms the horrifying frozen tundra wind-blast of the “I Want You (She’s So Heavy)” fade at the end of side one.  

Richard Furnstein: You caught me. I was trying to put on a brave face. Of course, it was all over. The Hand of Death had long guided The Beatles, providing closure to their early scrappy days with the passing of Stu Sutclliffe in April 1962 and closing out their identity as comfortable idols with Brian Epstein's death in August 1967. Perhaps Lennon was trying to coax the reaper into his life once again with "Yer Blues." Take another soul, dear reaper. Let us run wild into the world without the burden of The Beatles. Lennon didn't have the guts to follow through on the threat of suicide, much like he could never effectively put an end to his rock group. His frequent calls to action (romanticized in his posthumous image as a peace merchant) never overcame his drug-addled daydreams.

Robert Bunter: It's bad, man. Real bad. How the hell are we going to break the news to Ringo?

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.

Helter Skelter

Richard Furnstein: Can you imagine the look on George Martin's face when he heard this giant bat of the sub-apocalypse fly through Abbey Road Studio? He was probably sitting in the control booth with perfectly rolled shirt sleeves, balancing his morning tea on his delicate left knee while munching on a carob muffin. Just another day at the office, right? Then these four British vikings swoop in with blood in their teeth and fire in their eyes. Ringo has birds of prey carrying his drums through the haunted skies. What do these evil men want? No matter, give them our prettiest daughters and the grain harvest. Just make them go away before they destroy everything. I'm sure George Martin wanted to head to church and make some confessions after hearing this leering, fully fanged treatise of sex and violence. It might be a heavy metal song, but it makes that music sound like wimpy, juvenile garbage. Is that a children's squeaky toy in the mix at the end of the song? What the hell is happening here?  Is that a pentagram on the wall?

Robert Bunter: Yeah, that’s some assault, pal! Sure, The Beatles invented heavy metal (along with music videos, long hair on men, colorful clothes, the counterculture, meta songwriting) on this track, which McCartney supposedly composed after reading a Pete Townshend interview where Pete described wanting to write the filthiest, heaviest Who song possible (he was likely talking about “I Can See For Miles,” but Paul didn’t know that.) Paul liked the idea and decided to take a whack at it. One suspects he was also pleased to do something to muddy up his top-hat-and-cane, choirboy balladeer image. “Hey, I know everybody thinks that I was the softie and John was Mr. Rockandroll, but what about ‘Helter Skelter?” Well, you’ve got a point there, Paul McCartney. This track is really, really awesome. Especially in mono.

Richard Furnstein: Paul takes us to the spiral slide on a balmy May evening; a cloudy flashback to a forgotten English childhood. The song provides the sensation and motion of spinning in an endless circle: the flashing lights begin to slowly pause into a bleeding trail and the trees along the ridge blur into a hulking monster of green and enveloping sadness. His friends (John, George, Ringo, Mal) are still there but their faces have blurred together as well. Summer is about to begin/summer is over. You aren't a child anymore, brother. This is the loss of innocence.

Paul shouts "Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!" on "Helter Skelter," but it isn't from a place of excitement like on "She Loves You." He seems to be providing affirmation of the unknown evil forces--the darkness--that surrounds this track.  Remember that the devil cannot enter you unless you invite him in. "Helter Skelter" is a gorgeous combination of claustrophobia and a blank void. It's driven by the fear and excitement of the unknown--the next move is huge, but you aren't sure how to take it. From the jungle gym to the jungle!

Four British vikings swoop in with blood in their teeth and fire in their eyes. Ringo has birds of prey carrying his drums through the haunted skies.

Robert Bunter: Yeah, the “childhood slide” angle on this lyric is really bizarre. He sings about a slide, then addresses some very adult lyrics to a grown woman. Meanwhile, the musical atmosphere suggests a terrifying bat cave. This is another example of the new, frightening emotional colors that the Beatles were beginning to add to their palette. We’re all used to shades of Joy, Wonder, Excitement, Melancholy, Trippy, Love and Arrogantly Bemused. The White Album (!) deploys Terror, Madness, Anger and Sardonic Contempt in much bigger amounts than we’d come to expect. No wonder Charles Manson heard this and decided to commit a bunch of crimes. Of course, that’s no excuse. Richard, tell me about the recording session. You know what I’m looking for here. Paint me a picture.

Richard Furnstein: Certainly you are referencing the loose and hypnotic initial takes of this song. Early versions clocked in at 27 minutes and 12 minutes (the latter was edited for use in the Anthology disc). It sure is titillating to imagine the good guys going off script. Light some candles and knock the dank out of this basement, we're going on a little journey. And what a journey it must have been, featuring Paul in full on blues trance mode, George repeating mantras in his head as his Gibson's sweet tones turn his legs to jelly, John nodding off, his forehead planted on a nearby wall, and Ringo famously told us about the blisters on his poor fingers (albeit only on the inferior stereo version). George Martin probably hit the talk back button after that half hour mega jam and told the boys to tidy up the arrangement. The boys would do that anyway, but I'm sure there was the initial jolt of excitement as Paul envisioned dropping a four disc version of their new album, complete with the extended explorations of "Helter Skelter," "Revolution 1," "What's The New Mary Jane," and "Revolution 9." It would have been the ultimate sign that The Beatles were unable to compromise or edit their increasingly disparate musical output. "Helter Skelter" would have taken an entire side and we all would have loved it. Hopefully that fictional version of the White Album also had sequential numbering.

Robert Bunter: Yeah, that must have been a hell of a session. I’m not sure where they got this information, but several Beatle book authors describe George running around with a flaming ashtray on his head while they recorded the 27-minute take. I don’t understand that at all. Was it one of those little diner ashtrays? What did he do, light some paper on fire and run around? How did the paper not fall out? Or what if it was one of those big burnished aluminum floor ashtrays on a stand? How do you put something like that on your head? Were they operating strobe lights during this session? Common sense says that would be impossible, but it seems so right. What drugs had they taken? What were they drinking? Cognac? What did John look like during this session? Was it before or after he shaved the Sgt. Pepper moustache? Granny glasses on or off? I’m picturing light beard stubble and a white linen cloak, but there will probably never be a way to find out for sure.

Richard Furnstein: Wow. Look, I've got goosepimples!

Her Majesty

Robert Bunter: This is a case where context defines meaning. Placement at the end of the last recorded album of the Beatles career serves to deflate the transcendent glory of “The End,” which is a nice idea. Sure, they just brought tears to your eyes with primal guitar dueling, Ringo’s crucial drum solo and a haunting reflection on the Universal Love Equation (as I call it), but they’re at pains to avoid anything that might give the impression that they’re taking themselves too seriously. So they tacked on a funky little McCartney ditty to puncture the heavy mood. It sounds almost nothing like a McCartney song; it has the flavor of an old folk melody or bawdy pub singalong. The lyrics are pleasantly innocuous with just a touch of impudence. If they’d kept the track in its original spot (alternate Abbey Road side two mixes have it sandwiched in between “Mean Mr. Mustard” and “Polythene Pam”), the implications would be totally different.

Richard Furnstein: The show is over, but Paul lifts the corner of the curtain to let a little light back on to the audience. "Her Majesty" is the pollen gently floating through the spring air, it doesn't matter if it lands on a lonely stigma. You are right, it breaks the heavy mood around the side two medley, where The Beatles threw everything at the listener to give him the strength to carry on in a post-Beatles world. But it's sketch-like nature and the crashing indecision of the song's introduction suggest that the ditties will survive. "The End" is a beautiful (ahem) ending, but seems a little forced for a band that was always thinking ahead to the next phase. "Her Majesty" is a relief. "Don't worry," they seem to be telling us, "McCartney's solo album is right around the corner and it is full of non songs like this!"

These false endings underscore the “nothing is real” message of the Beatles and give us hope in some cosmic sense that there always might be something more around the corner.

Robert Bunter: Both sides of Abbey Road end with surprises. The interminable frozen wasteland of “I Want You (She’s So Heavy)” is clipped to an abrupt silence which provides a mighty jolt for the attention of the listener who’d been lulled into a stupor by the hypnotic repetition of the main riff. With side two, they give us another fake-out … we’re wiping the tears from our eyes at “The End,” which is followed by some silence. Well, that’s it for that! The album is done. Wait, what’s this? Fake endings are a staple of the Beatles catalog – you’ve got the eerie “Strawberry Fields Forever” coda, both sides of Sgt. Pepper’s (on side one, the “bye-bye” at the end of “She’s Leaving Home” seems like a natural finish but watch out because the terrifying Mr. Kite is leering around the corner; on side two, the reprise of the Pepper theme seems to bring down the curtain but the listener is abruptly shifted from the magical wonder-show to the melancholy dream that is “A Day In The Life”), “Hello Goodbye” and a moment at the ACTUAL end of the Beatles’ official recorded catalogue, “Free As A Bird,” when an incongruously showbizzy ukulele appears out of a swirl of backwards tapes and poorly-recorded Ringodrums. These false endings underscore the “nothing is real” message of the Beatles and give us hope in some cosmic sense that there always might be something more around the corner.

Richard Furnstein: I always wondered if George Martin supported the fake out ending to Abbey Road. Martin was very careful about sequencing closers for The Beatles. The early albums were based on the live set, so the shredders were given their natural position. That's all folks, there is blood on the mic. Later albums seem to blend the majestic ("Tomorrow Never Knows") and the pedestrian ("Run For Your Life") with consistently exciting results. The Abbey Road Medley was set to tear the faces off of the world (remember this is years before Genesis took us from the living room to Jerusalem in "Supper's Ready" from Foxtrot) and The Beatles decided to set off a roman candle after the bombastic fireworks display. Geoff Emerick later recounted the story of "Her Majesty" remaining on the master of Abbey Road in his soulless book Here, There and Everywhere. Abbey Road engineer John Kurlander kept the aborted snippet of the medley (following EMI rules) and Malcolm Davies missed the tape indication of the extra snippet in the final cutting. Sure, Davies should have been listening, but I think it all worked out in the end! (The album later went triple platinum.)

I Want You (She's So Heavy)

Richard Furnstein: This is a new phase John Lennon song. The jabberwocky of "Glass Onion" and the blurry poetry of "Strawberry Fields Forever" have been replaced by Lennon The Straight Shooter. "Don't Let Me Down" was one of the first Lennon songs to utilize this new approach, and he would take it to new levels of heavy on Plastic Ono Band. "I Want You" is Lennon writing about Yoko Ono in the style of Yoko Ono. There's a direct line from John bleeding his love all over the floor in fourteen words or less in this song and Yoko's bleating and pleading on "Why?" (a single word chant on her Plastic Ono Band) or "Don't Worry, Kyoko" (a startling two words, "Cold Turkey" b-side). Let's get down to the heart of the matter. It's all S.O.S. or "I love you" when the day is done.

Robert Bunter: It's one of the most overused words in my Beatles vocabulary, but this track is primal. John wants his mother's love, and he believes he's finally found it in Yoko and heroin. The various Lennon masks lay discarded on the floor of his squalid Montague Square flat (on loan from Ringo while John gets Tittenhurst painted completely white) - there's the grinning moptop, the Joycean punster, the Dylanesque sophisticate, the acid prophet, the youth culture sloganeer, the political rabblerouser - all tossed haphazardly aside like so many nickels and dimes. Behind all the personas, there's a terrifying snakepit of madness, hurt, anger and need. "She's So Heavy" evokes this with horror-movie organ chords, moog-generated howling wind noises, hypnotic stupor-inducing length and repetitiveness. By the time this thing ends with a sudden silence, the listener feels like they've spent a year trudging through a frozen tundra. The effect is heightened by the clever sequencing of "Here Comes The Sun" as the next track when you flip the record over. George leads us out of the cold and warmly sets the table for the exhilarating rocket ride of Abbey Road's second side. But as we step on the gas and wipe that tear away, we glance at the rear-view mirror and see a screeching, bearded madman in a pure white funeral suit with bloodshot eyes, his extremities starting to go numb from cold snow and worse things. Jesus!

Richard Furnstein: The Nordic howl and the shivers of cold metal entering your arm. It's a medical condition. "P.S. I Love You." John manages to outdo the lunkhead grooves and hairfaced sleaze of the heavy British bands of the day. Ten Years After couldn't even change the oil in John's bluesmachine. Like most of the songs on Abbey Road rest of The Beatles play their part perfectly. Paul almost steals the show with an hyperactive bass part. George is a master of steely tension and liquid drip guitar riffs. Ringo is yet again the master; he even brought along the congas to spice up the party! And the windchill at the end of the song? That's the sound of all of us entering the void that is tomorrow. Snow blind and kept alive through a precious combination of drugs, food, and love. Will there be enough to get us through the next day? God, I hope so.

John wants his mother's love, and he believes he's finally found it in Yoko and heroin. The various Lennon masks lay discarded on the floor of his squalid Montague Square flat.

Robert Bunter: In an interview, Lennon said "When you're drowning, you don't say 'I would be incredibly pleased if someone had the foresight to notice me drowning,' you just scream." It's interesting that the closest metaphor he can devise for his love for Yoko is drowning; she's "driving me mad" because "she's so heavy." This is not the same figure who celebrated the youthful joy of love ("She Loves You"), slowly grew to understand it's more sophisticated shadings and nuances ("If I Fell,") or universalized it as a prime focus of human existence ("The Word," "Tomorrow Never Knows," "All You Need Is Love"). The Lennon of "She's So Heavy" finds love has become a ten ton burden instead of a life preserver. The minimalist lyrics are delivered to two listeners. He tells Yoko "I want you so bad," while declaring to the other Beatles and the rest of the world that "she's so heavy." That's pretty much all he had to say at this point, other than "could you please get me more heroin?" and "I want a divorce. I'm splitting up the group." Pretty grim.

Richard Furnstein: Sure, it's grim, but that's life. "You and I have memories longer than the road that stretches out ahead," is mighty grim, too. It's all coming to an end. Lennon wasn't taking the stability of a little woman love for granted. He had seen that it could go away in an instant. A drunk police officer could run over your mother or your wife could be a minute late for the train to India. Humans just have to dodge and sway the obstacles of life and hope they wind up living out their final days in a lovely cottage on the Isle of Wight. Lennon is screaming at us to live and love now. The abrupt ending was the result of John telling Geoff Emerick to "cut it right there." John was playing God, quickly lowering the curtain on the first act of the final play. The Beatles' catalog was full of these moments of happy accidents. They dialed past a performance of King Lear that was broadcast on the BBC, providing gravitas to the absurd death dance of "I Am The Walrus." "Revolution 9" was almost entirely composed of these blink and you miss it moments that define creativity. "Cut it right there" says everything about Lennon's head circa 1969. The song was long enough already. They could have maintained the ritual of the lurching riff forever but they eventually had to snip the tape.

So heavy.

Doctor Robert

Robert Bunter: One of the "problems" with the Beatles catalog is the fact that so much of it was earth-shatteringly great. Every album, every single, almost every song: so many of them became benchmarks of quality, huge hits, famous achievements. Most bands that release a dozen albums have just a handful of major touchstones (if any), so it's fun for fans to dive into the world of the middle-quality albums, the forgotten filler songs, the fourth track on side two. If we were talking about the Stray Cats, it would be songs like "Baby Blue Eyes" or the "Rock Therapy" LP. If you like Ten Years After, it must be fun to dig up things like "Circles" or "Stonedhenge." What about Tom Petty's "Change Of Heart" or Carly Simon's "De Bat" or the Beach Boys "Marcella" or side two of "Tales Of Kidd Funkadelic"? Anyway, the Beatles catalog distorts this whole proportional ratio because the records are loaded with total monster smash hits, which deprives us of this kind of fun discovery. What I'm trying to say is, in my ideal world the Beatles would have released about ten records during the "Revolver" period instead of just one. I wish they could have been frozen in that stage of development (and all the other ones) to really explore the zone, even if the overall impact was diluted. Anyway, if that had happened, I can imagine "Dr. Robert" as one of the B-side tracks from one of the many "Revolver"-era records in this fantasy world. It's great, but not too great. Typical work from this stage in the group's evolution; beautiful. Am I making any sense here?


Richard Furnstein: Strong but fair. Sure, we all want to freeze those Revolver Beatles in time. They still wore suits when Brian Epstein told them to, John still had his baby fat, and they all played on the records. It was a beautiful time. And, sure, "Doctor Robert" would have been a nifty lost track to accompany this little playground of the mind. Well, roll over, Beethoven. The Beatles gave us "Rain" as the b-side of this era. A b-side that was set down on a golden marble pedestal by angelic unicorns in a hailstorm of first kisses. I ain't complaining and I'm not playing God. I'll take it. Give me one "Doctor Robert," barkeep. There's some dust on that bottle but it tastes mighty fine.


Robert Bunter: John's head was spinning and his pupils were dilated, so he wrote this funky ode to a mythical, drug-dispensing Dr. Feelgood. It's got a creepy feeling to it. The angelic "Well well well / you're feeling fine" chant has a vague undertone of menace. The lyrics are cryptical riddles, delivered in an odd rhythmic meter, with strange chord progressions and shiny guitar tones. At the very end as it fades out, it goes to a chord that didn't happen in any of the earlier choruses. Vintage Lennon. Great stuff, man. Great stuff.


Richard Furnstein: "Doctor Robert" is another case of The Beatles providing a glimpse into their drugged out, finely tailored lives. As John and Paul moved away from love songs, they found greater inspiration in the small moments in lives and the odd characters that filled their protected lives. Doctor Robert was just another of these faceless humans, paper cut-outs of humans that entered into their lonely orbits. The shadows dominate much of their songs from this period and later. Eleanor Rigby is a lonely old maid, a symbol of their yearning for understanding. The "bird" from "Norwegian Wood" is so vividly sketched that you can imagine the long brown hairs danging from her hairbrush at the end of the bath. Bungalow Bill has a hell of a smile. You get the picture, or maybe you don't (and isn't that the point?). The Beatles had to make sense of these lesser humans that entered their lives. You always got the sense that Paul thrived on his sketches of humanity ("Another Day" is one of the greatest examples of his "oh life" songs) and John dipped his toes into the waters a bit before going full oninto self exploration. "Doctor Robert" is the ultimate soulless character from their songs. He's a side effect of celebrity, the kind of unseemly and sinister character that The Rolling Stones loved to throw into songs. The good doctor is the late night visitor after an evening of the nightclubbing in A Hard Day's Night. "This will calm your heart, Johnny. You have to get on a plane in the morning!"

The John-Figure stares out at us from the black vinyl grooves with bared teeth and uncomfortable eyes.

Robert Bunter: You've got a point there. As we've done so many times before, it's useful to imagine the impact this track had on the impressionable young listener. Whether it was a callow young lad who looked up to the cheeky moptops as life inspirations or a young tinybopper who wanted Ringo to ask her to the sub-junior ring dance, they were surely shocked when the bouncy love songs of yesterday (!) gave way to Revolver's creepy character portraits, incomprehensible acid invocations and complaints about her majesty's marginal tax rates on top income brackets. John's lyrics on "Dr. Robert" are delivered like the sales pitch of some shady character in an alley, holding open one side of his oversized trenchcoat to reveal a selection of illicit wares attached to the inner lining. "Pssst, hey kid, c'mere. Try this." John would return to this mode with the terrifying carnival barker of "Being For The Benefit Of Mr. Kite," the belligerent interrogator of "I Am The Walrus, "Hey Bulldog," "Glass Onion," and the leering pervert of "Happiness Is A Warm Gun."  When John wasn't analyzing his own tortured psyche, he seemed to get a kick out of directly addressing you, the listener, with unsettling, one-sided conversations. Even when he tried to play the Paul role (third-person narratives about colorful characters), he couldn't seem to help himself from wallowing in the imbalanced power dynamic between artist and consumer. The John-Figure stares out at us from the black vinyl grooves with bared teeth and uncomfortable eyes.