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.

Circles

Richard Furnstein: Oh, dear angels. Pray tell me this: what would have happened if The Beatles actually recorded George's White Album outtake "Circles"? The song is particularly ghastly in his demo version as the wheeze of the chord organ blends with George's heinous breathy voice. The resulting effect is like a flash of warm air leaving a tandoori oven on a cool morning. But what more could have been? Would John have played along? Would Paul bolster George's thin but dreamy chorus? Surely, Ringo would have propelled this dreary and (obviously) circular number with his primal drumming. "Circles" certainly had some promise, but it was the wrong time for George to deliver an ambiguous moaner to The Beatles. Clearly, he was on probation after plopping "Blue Jay Way" and "The Inner Light" into the toilet bowl of the world.

Robert Bunter: Yeah. Sometimes it seems like the guy had just two speeds: sizzling ("Taxman," "Savoy Truffle," "I Want To Tell You") and plodding ("Long Long Long," "Within You, Without You," the aforementioned "Blue Jay Way"). "I Me Mine" actually managed to shift from plod to sizzle in the space of one track. "Circles" funereal organ dirge takes George's tendency toward sour lethargy to a ridiculous new extreme. The lyric offers some ham-fisted moonbeams-and-patchouli philosophizing with none of the poetic evocativeness that Lennon could bring to similar material like "Because" or "Across The Universe," as well as recycling some lyrical ideas ripped off from Lao Tze ("He who knows does not speak / He who speaks does not know") which would re-appear on "The Inner Light" and the inartful use of the word "swine" on an album where he'd already offered a song about swine. That being said, it's not clear that this was ever really in the lineup as a serious contender for the White Album, unlike the superior "Not Guilty," which was extensively developed over many recording sessions, then dropped at the last minute along with John's harrowing "What's The New Mary Jane." It's not really fair to be so critical about what was probably a very stoned demo session to work out some rough ideas for future development. I can certainly tell you that it would be unfair if some future bloggers found my early '90s homemade cassettes and pointed out the immature charmlessness of "Tony's Raga" or "You Will Enjoy My Style." Unfortunately, all we have to judge the potential growth of this song is the rough 1968-era demo. If only George had managed to find the time to polish this particular turd during his solo career, with all the technological advances that were available during the early 1980s. Oh well, guess we'll never know what might have...

Richard Furnstein: Hold on! I have to stop you right there. I have with me a rare early 1982 pressing of a George Harrison album called (get this) Gone Troppo. I don't think anyone has ever really heard it, so it could be the ultimate Beatles rarity. Especially now that Paul McCartney has issued the AM radio promotional mono mix on 180 gm delicious vinyl. Check out the cover, it looks like one of those stupid 5 for $10 shirts that clog up depressing seaside towns like Oceanside, California or Wildwood Crest, New Jersey.

George finally got around to recording "Circles" for this ultimate collector's choice release. Gone Troppo also features some classic dreary numbers like the navel-gazing "Mystical One" and the inadequate tropical ooze of "Greece." Wait a second. That actually sounds pretty great, right? Wrong. It stinks.

"Circles" funereal organ dirge takes George's tendency toward sour lethargy to a ridiculous new extreme.

Robert Bunter: Okay, fun's over. We both know about Gone Troppo already. It could have been so wonderful. When rich rock stars go to tropical lands and get inspired, the results are often breathtaking. Tropical soft rock combines the breezy cheerfulness of island lifestyles with just a hint of salty ocean tears; the wistful melancholy which foreign people call "tristes tropiques" ("the sadness of tropical lifestyles" in English). The longing for a place that is both perfect and impossible; the disappointing reality that waits at sunrise when the last of the coladas has worn off. Forget about Jimmy Buffet; gaze deeply into the world of Michael Nesmith's "Rio," Kevin Ayers' "Caribbean Moon" or Bill Wyman's "Je Suis Un Rock Star." The possibility of George Harrison dipping his feet into these beautiful clear waters is intriguing, but unfortunately "Gone Troppo" falls flat. Any of the other Beatles might have been more suited to a coconut-rock cash-in record, I'd wager.

Richard Furnstein: John came close with the sweeping ocean breeze calm of "Beautiful Boy." Paul's explorations into the tropical mind during the Wings years usually yielded loose "reggae" with manic shouting and funny voices. I imagine Ringo tried for the frond and mango set at some point, but who wants to listen to those records?

As for the Gone Troppo version of "Circles," it's a pleasant enough exploration of the White Album sound. The obligatory solo George slide guitar seems particularly poignant and lonely in this mix. In fact, this recording could be George perfecting the melancholy bloat template that was established by his putrid second solo album Living In The Material World. Why exactly did George dig up this lonely Kinfauns sessions outtake to serve as the closer for his indifferent 1982 album? Creative bankruptcy: the same reason that he gave away "I Don't Want To Do It," an outtake from All Things Must Pass, to the Porky's Revenge! Original Soundtrack. Sadly, George often lived off the scraps of the fertile period between The White Album and All Things Must Pass. The next golden age never really came (despite some justifiable good will for Cloud Nine). I guess he was too busy racing cars or puttering around his gloomy gardens to actually write songs.

Robert Bunter: You're right. It's a sad deal. I'd just like to close with this great passage from Albert Goldman's slanderous "The Lives Of John Lennon,"¹ about how Double Fantasy was originally conceived as "a reggae album with tango attitude":
  
"...Signaling Fred to fetch the recording gear, John sang and strummed, while Fred beat on a guitar case, until Lennon was satisfied he had gotten down what was in his head. Then, lighting up a joint, he kicked back contentedly and began to paint in rapt tones his vision of his great comeback album. It would be an album soaked from end to end with the soft, sensuous sounds of the Caribbean. Bermuda was in the Caribbean, wasn't it? It wasn't! Well, fuck it! What difference did that make? It was an ocean isle, tropical and sexy, full of the sounds and moves of rhythm and blues. In fact, if they really wanted to get the right sound, they should go to Jamaica! Go to the same studio that Bob Marley used! Get down with the Rasta men and smoke ganja in big spliffs or hash in chillums. Then they could get that deep-down, superfunky bass-box sound that comes straight from Trenchtown. You couldn't get that sound in New York. No way!" 

¹  Goldman, Albert. 1988. The Lives of John Lennon. Chicago Review Press.

The Inner Light

Ravi Shankar: April 7, 1920-December 11, 2012

Robert Bunter: After George went to India and became obsessed with Eastern music and spiritual thought, he found a few different ways to integrate these sounds and ideas into his work with the Beatles. Sometimes, as on “Norwegian Wood,” “Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds” and “Getting Better,” he would incorporate a subtle whiff of curry-flavored instrumental sounds into stellar Lennon/McCartney tracks. This was the most successful approach, in this listener’s opinion. The zangy, tangy, boingy sounds of sitars and sarods colored the canvas with shades of freaky novelty, as well as the solemn dignity of cultural traditions that are thousands of millions (?) of years old, without overwhelming the freshness and accessibility of the material. On other songs, George would use regular rock instrumentation (or at least regular for the Beatles – mellotrons, tape loops and session players) on songs that had an Indian influence in their songwriting aesthetic. I’m thinking of “Blue Jay Way,” “Long Long Long” and “It’s All Too Much” with their lengthy running times, static chord drones and non-Western melodic intervals. Great stuff, love it, yes please … though few would rank them among the group’s best. Finally, there are “Love You To,” “Within You Without You” and “The Inner Light,” where George dropped all the subtlety and went for full-tilt Indian ragatude. With the same clownish minstrel-show flatulence of Alvin Lee “singing the blues” or McCartney “getting into a bit of a reggae area” with “C-Moon,” George dons an imported peasant monk’s robe that probably cost a million pounds at Gloanburg’s Exotic Boutique on Carnaby Street, paints a dot on his head (not even correct, they actually do that in Indonesia, not India), and embarrasses himself and everyone else with a bunch of trite, fortune cookie platitudes and blatant cultural appropriation. The real guys study for thousands of years to write and play this music and this simple Liverpool bus-driver’s son thinks he can grasp the essence after a few sessions with Ravi in the Kinfauns drawing room? Get the hell out of here.

Richard Furnstein: "The Inner Light" is truly one of the most delightful and unexpected treasures in The Beatles catalog. Like finding a cardamom pod nestled in the pillowy saffron rice of your grandmother's kheer, George's solemn treatise provides some necessary mindthought to the light (Paul) and dark (John) forces of the world. Realizing his own limitations at the raga craft, George enlisted some of India's finest session musicians to lay down the track for "The Inner Light" along with much of the "world music" filler on the Wonderwall soundtrack. As a result, the familiar tones of John, Paul, George, and Ringo were replaced with the expert, rich flavors of new faces Aashish, Mahapurush, Hanuman, Hariprasad, and Rijram. Oh, how they probably laughed at George's novelty explorations of their music and culture. They probably plunked the elementary riff from "Norwegian Wood" every time he left the studio. Yet, they had a clear mission that day: to restore the Western man's spiritual balance and to illuminate the limitless possibilities of the human mind. The traditional Indian instruments (sarod, pakhavaj, shehani, bansuri, and harmonium) were merely a conduit to reach the inner peace suggested at George's optimistic prose.

Robert Bunter: Who would have thought that a Beatle could enter Nirvana? Let me tell you about Eastern thought. All the great texts, scriptures, sutras, koans, hymns and verses say the same thing, over and over again – the Ultimate Truth lies beyond mere words and rational thought, so you’re not going to find the answer in any text, scripture, sutra, koan, hymn or verse. I’ll tell you another place you’re not going to find it: on the flipside of “Lady Madonna” or, god help us, on the putrid monument to missed opportunity that is the 1980 Capitol “Rarities” compilation. This song exemplifies the phony, holier-than-thou ego-tripping that lay behind so much of the Me Generation’s pathetic spiritual dabbling. “Isn’t it great how I have transcended the Ego? If only you could be like ME and become enlightened. It’s so great to be egoless and serve the Lord. What a shame you have yet to reach MY level of mental development.” Lao Tze was the one who said, “He who knows does not say, and he who says does not know.” So why did he say it? If only there was a time machine and I could be present at that wonderful session. Surely Rijram and I would have shared a hearty chortle at the misguided floundering of “The Inner Light” because he would recognize that I, Robert Bunter, truly understand what the Indian mindspace is all about. Then we could have convinced them to scrap the whole session and put “What’s The New Mary Jane” on the “Lady Madonna” b-side. Let’s get OUT there and do something really experimental, Beatles. Outside the damn box. Yeah! Whooo-whee! SHAKE IT!

George dons an imported peasant monk’s robe that probably cost a million pounds at Gloanburg’s Exotic Boutique on Carnaby Street, paints a dot on his head, and embarrasses himself and everyone else with a bunch of trite, fortune cookie platitudes and blatant cultural appropriation.

Richard Furnstein: I'm confused. Are you using the time machine to stop by The White Album mixing sessions to grab the acetate for "What's The New Mary Jane" before you visit Rijram & Company at EMI Studios in Bombay? I hope you filled up the time machine with fuel, pal.

Surely you are right about the privileged escapism of George's initial hollow explorations into India's music, fashion, culture, and religion. George's attempts to fuse his love of Carl Perkins (the Brahma to a young George Harrison) with his new sensation were obviously clumsy (although I would argue that "Love You To" is a brilliant blend). I think he was successful in his overall goals. The "arrive without traveling" referenced in "The Inner Light" could have pointed to a progression to global concerns. This may be empty hope that The Beatles did more than just introduce nag champa, loose fitting white collarless shirts, and complicated sex positions to their gullible audience. George later proved himself to the doubting Rijrams of the world through the Bangladesh fundraiser, a lifelong friendship with his spirit guide Ravi Shankar, and his brilliant b-side for the Ronnie Spector/Phil Spector/George Harrison one off single "Try Some, Buy Some" b/w "Tandoori Chicken." I'm sure those jaded and flatulent session musicians later looked at George not as a cultural invader but as a bridge between their honored traditions and the gaudy and godless Western world. Indeed, the oft referenced Rijram Desad would later provide percussion and strings on George Harrison and Ravi Shankar's 1974 tour for the Dark Horse album. Can you imagine the wild times that this traveling circus had touring under-attended hockey stadiums throughout North America?

Robert Bunter: Yes, I can imagine it: backstage at Madison Square Garden, 1974. You can lightly hear the strains of Splinter’s debut album (produced by George and released on his then-new Dark Horse vanity label) over the PA system in the half-empty stadium; the confused fans are wondering why George’s new album doesn’t sound anywhere near this good. The dhorkti paste and naan crisps are starting to congeal on the hospitality tray as Rijram and the other Indian musicians attempt to meditate and practice their scales. They’re not having much luck, however, because here comes Billy Preston! He’s dressed outrageously in a sequined jumpsuit and his million-watt smile beams infectiously under his broad Afro-natural hairstyle. He’s dancing and clapping his hands in a merry dance but all of a sudden he slips on a plate of ghoon cubes and tumbles face-first into the lap of Ghovanda’s sari and the whole hospitality tray comes crashing down. George, who is pale, underweight and yellow with jaundice looks up from his diseased black Stratocaster and tries to lighten the mood with a pun (“I guess love means never having to save your sari”) but no one can hear him because his voice is utterly destroyed. No wonder the reviewers called this album and tour “Dark Hoarse.”

Richard Furnstein: Happier times, to be sure. Let's all send our love emotions out to the dear departed Ravi Shankar and his friends and family. He is now in a better place, visiting with all of his dear friends: George Harrison, John Lennon, Brian Epstein, Linda McCartney, Mal Evans, Klaus Vormann, Stuart Sutcliffe, Neil Aspinall, and, yes, even the exuberant Billy Preston. Remember this ancient mantra, friends:

If you believe in forever 
Then life is just a one-night stand 
If there's a rock and roll heaven 
Well you know they've got a hell of a band, band, band. 

Robert Bunter: What a beautiful vision. I'm sure they are all together in Heaven. Or else they all were reincarnated into snakes, common baboons, or other land beasts.

She's A Woman

Robert Bunter: This song stinks.

Richard Furnstein: Certainly. Can we leave it there? We can't? Alright, "She's A Woman" finds Paul once again favoring his tender throat over actual songwriting. Songs like "She's A Woman," "The Night Before," and "I'm Down" provided nice little rock showcases in the late period Beatles live shows, replacing a string of dusty Little Richard covers. These sloppy half songs find Paul making up the recipe as he goes along ("My love don't give me presents") and the resulting dishes are soggy and uninspired. They are lucky that Gordon Ramsey was either unborn or just a stupid child because he would probably raid their kitchen and throw out their moldy steamer trays of Little Richards and Larry Williams covers and make Ringo scrub the Hobart with his toothbrush.

Robert Bunter: Wait, what? “Soggy and uninspired?” Something must be wrong with your speakers, man. Knock the wax out of your ears. Maybe you’re not hearing the Beatles primal explorations of raw funk. Paul is at the top of his game. The vocal reeks of conviction, and the bassline struts and bobs and weaves through the iron-clanking rhythm guitar, percussion shaker, and funky little old-lady piano part like Deion Sanders charging up the court to sink a three-point shot in the paint at the bottom of the fourth quarter! Sure, it’s no “Yesterday” or side two of Abbey Road, but that wasn’t the necessary function here. This was a 1964 b-side, my friend. These four lads were rushing around the globe, inspiring hearts, minds and crotches … not necessarily in that order! Then they strode into the studio and cut a brainless, snappy track that would liven up any sock party or weenie roast when some shaggy youngster gives it a spin on the old brown GloanTone phonograph. Quit carping about soggy lyrics and bang your head to this electrifying early masterpiece!

Richard Furnstein: The Beatles For Sale/Help! period found The Beatles struggling to determine what kind of band they were. They needed to be prolific and road ready while slowly giving into the marijuana haze forming in their minds. The tracks from the "Fat Elvis" period can only really be grouped by their inconsistency and apparent resistance-to-growth after the fertile A Hard Day's Night album. Sure, you can point out the raw crunchy genius of John's guitar intro or George's playful lead rolling around like hyenas in post-kill euphoria. But really, that's like saying that a rusty, broken down car has "character." I'm not buying it, friend. This song is fatally flawed, even for a McCartney howler. I'm putting it at the bottom of a dank pile of shredders, including "Why Don't We Do It On The Road" and "Mumbo."

Let's sum up--this song stinks.

Robert Bunter: I’m not going to argue with you, man. Paul and the Beatles were capable of so much more. This is possibly the most awkward 12-bar-blues I’ve ever heard. “I know that she’s no peasant” is such a dopey lyric that it’s like an insult to the listener. Paul is laughing, secure in the knowledge that this track alone will earn enough future royalties to buy the rights to “Annie” and “A Chorus Line,” which in turn will make him another fortune. So why bother to waste the effort on lyrics? When you come right down to it, Beatles analysis is really just a matter of dollars and cents. Why waste the output effort resources when the time-adjusted anticipated returns are so massive? Considered in that light, even the feeblest Beatles efforts (“She’s A Woman,” “Matchbox”) start to seem like very generous gifts. They could have quit after the “Hard Day’s Night” film and still come out ahead. I, for one, am glad that they didn’t.

Richard Furnstein: We haven't even discussed the stupid guitar solo on this thing. George probably had the most difficulty during this transition period. His spurting, aggressive, and unfocused solo is the sound of puberty derailing his once promising mind. He'd experience a strong recovery in the coming fertile years ("Old Brown Shoe"), so let's not judge him too harshly for that that awful solo. At least he wasn't responsible for writing this jar of crap.

Robert Bunter: Yeah, it’s pretty grim. So, let’s sum up – this song stinks. There were far greater achievements ahead for the Beatles, but back in 1964 nobody could be certain about that. I know of at least one fan who became very nervous after hearing this track for the first time. Would they be able to recover? Was the sweet promise of “If I Fell” and “It Won’t Be Long” illusory? Tomorrow never knew, but now it does. Stay tuned, young lad. I have a feeling it’s going to be a hell of a summer.

Roll Over Beethoven

Richard Furnstein: "Roll Over Beethoven" was a bold mission statement when Chuck Berry recorded the song in 1956. "Hey, Mr. DJ, stop playing that boring dead person music and put on this exciting blues-cum-redneck monstrosity that will surely impregnate your daughter." The dead composers in the lyrics were just symbols for the conservative European conception of music/art/lifestyle/existence. "Dig to these rhythm and blues" wasn't an invitation to enjoy this new brand of music, it was a request to dig your own grave because your world was over. "Time's up!" said Chuck, and the old white people clapped and went on with their boring racist lives. These same morons later made a movie about a clumsy dog named Beethoven tormenting Charles (Chuck?) Grodin. Get it? Dogs roll over.

Anyway, mild-mannered and gentle voiced George Harrison took this stomping declaration of cultural awakenings and turned it into a nostalgic stomp about rockings past. Beethoven and Tschaikowsky were completely dead at this point. America was advancing toward civil rights, but little George Harrison genuinely wanted to write a letter to his local disc jockey to hear his favorite rock n' roll record and that is that. I'm certainly not implying that George was misguided to sing "Roll Over Beethoven." I actually consider it a sweet reminder of the changes that took place in eight years.

Robert Bunter: That's right, jack. Roll over, Chuck Berry. The Beatles probably considered this song as a great, inspirational rocker that they were comfortable with from their live set so why not use it to pad out the album? They probably weren't aware that they were actually heralding the dawn of another revolutionary moment. Forget about the sexually-threatening duck-walker in the black-and-white TV footage. George and the boys are unwittingly sounding the alarm about a group of four colorful young lads who will preach the gospel of love, independent thought, honesty and optimism to a generation of blank-minded kids in coonskin caps and 3-D glasses. Those kids internalized the message and proceeded to recklessly abuse narcotics and cluster together in squalid "crash pads" with infested mattresses and bloodshot eyes. The 1950s squares who were upset about Chuck Berry didn't know how good they had it; in retrospect, they would be happy to have their daughters impregnated by this stylish hipster with his energetic take on T-Bone Walker's innovations from the '40s and songs about snappy automobiles and hamburgers. The moptops delivered something far more harmful.

Richard Furnstein: Now you got my attention! Chuck Berry was only hinting at one night's revolution: pitching a ball and driving fast cars. The Beatles helped introduce the world to cosmic seers, the thick hairy ropes inside high grade lysergic, and regressive psychotherapy. Greasers popping wheelies and speed in the malt shop parking lot don't sound so bad after that, eh?

George and the boys are unwittingly sounding the alarm about a group of four colorful young lads who will preach the gospel of love, independent thought, honesty and optimism to a generation of blank-minded kids in coonskin caps and 3-D glasses.

"Roll Over" also suggested that the return to Year Zero was upon us again. We were ready to turn the page on the roots of rock and roll, as we came to know and love this group of shape-shifting Brits that would continually renew our collective culture. Roll over, Ludwig and Elvis and Chuck and Herman's. You are all useless now. The Beatles would later prove that their earlier selves were useless as they burned through a series of drugs, shirt patterns, intellectual foundations, and mustaches. The Inferiors would try to stumble in their wake, buying Beatle boots and letting their sideburns tickle their ears. It would be a futile exercise as The Beatles kept advancing, ripping the calendar off the wall with every new release/promotional appearance/publicity stunt. What day is it today? It's the birth of a new age, Scrooge. Put your new flavored trousers on, stroll down to the group sex demonstration in Trafalgar and smoke angel dust with some Pakistani prophets.

Robert Bunter: OK, stop belaboring the point! Ha, just kidding. Let's take a listen to the music. The boys do a credible job on this one; none of the whitewashed antiseptic blandness that all too often was the result when black '50s rock legends were subjected to cover versions. George pays respectful homage to the master's licks, but the Beatles unashamedly put their own stamp on this one with the trademark Merseybeat sound: double-tracked vocals, Ringo's unrelenting drum hurricane, special studio effects (handclaps). At the beginning it sounds like George actually says "WE," as in, "We're gonna write a little letter / gonna mail it to my local DJ." He subsequently reverts to the first person, but the point had been made.

Richard Furnstein: He definitely says "we." I'm not sure how to take that. Most likely George was just wrapped up in the moment (that guitar lick sure is exciting), pushed by adrenalin and Ringo's dopecruncher beat. However, I like to imagine George is fantasizing writing a joint letter with the one and only Chuck Berry to their mutual local DJ. It's an impossible dream, but still exciting. George hunched over his father Harold's drafting table, while Chuck dictates the letter to him. Chuck is probably duck walking as he tries to finish his carefully crafted sentences. George made samosas for this crucial summit but Chuck declines. Politely.

Robert Bunter: Ah, I see. The two representatives of the new world order drafting a progressive charter that would forever change history. Mindful of the past, looking toward the future. Beautiful!

Octopus's Garden

Robert Bunter: On an album that deals extensively with adult themes of love, loss, conflict and peace (an album I like to call "Abbey Road"), Ringo shuffles out onto the stage and offers something for the children. Ringo, with his funny name and hangdog facial cast was already the most childlike of the Beatles. Kids could relate to his warm and welcoming image much better than terrifying John or grouchy George. Paul had a sort of childlike whimsy, but there was something disconcertingly adult about him, like a male "caller" performing magic tricks to distract the kiddies while he tries to seduce your mom because dad is away in Rhode Island. None of that with Ringo - just a guileless little tale of escape to an underwater paradise where smiling cephalopods invite you to their swaying-seaweed paradise. The little cherubs were undoubtedly delighted as this large-nosed dreamer spun his fanciful tale. One question - how did they breathe down there?

Richard Furnstein: They just did. Call it Ringo's final act of magick with The Beatles. Ringo's warm welcome to the underwater paradise ("I'd-ask-my-friends-to-come-and-see" in the classic Beatles staircase melody) sets the stage for a play date with the greatest human beings that were ever created. Come one, come all, ye children of The Beatles: the offspring from the endless incense and frotting in 1967, the junkies who come to life with George's progressive guitar break, the elusive jiggling feminists, the businessmen with healthy sideburns. You are all welcome here. Glide softly through the sparkling sea alive with sea mutations (probably just a recycled set from the "Yellow Submarine" fantasy) to find a giant open clam. Ringo is in the center of the clam, putting on a show. A little soft shoe for a school of goldfish. A shark is playing bass guitar (it's a Hofner). There's not a care in the world here. A shelter from the real world of diseased wheelchairs. Wow! Mal Evans in a diving suit!

Robert Bunter: Yup. That's the feeling. Of course, behind the escapist fantasy is the reality that Ringo's beloved band of Beatle brothers were breaking up. Legend has it that young Ritchie wrote this one after coming home from a depressing Apple Corps business meeting, so sad that he wished he was underwater instead. He decided to write a simple silly song that would guarantee enough future songwriting royalties (along with "Don't Pass Me By" and one-quarter of "Flying") to put his own children (their names were Zak, Ringo Jr., Bumbleton and Gloanbottom) through college. Remember, Brian Epstein threw away the product licensing royalties with shoddy deals, and the concert income was a long-forgotten memory by this point (Ringo having spent his share of the final Candlestick Park gig income on installation of a home-model carousel and multiple skids of canned Heinz beans). Luckily, the song isn't too bad. The other Beatles do a nice job of turd-polishing with lush harmonies, quicksilver guitar runs, chewy basslines and advanced aquatic production techniques on the bridge/solo.

Richard Furnstein: All thanks to George Harrison, obviously. It is touching that the second-class Beatles were there for each other as the Lennon/McCartney legal construct and brotherhood disintegrated into a mess of ram wrangling, petty letters to NME, and nasty-but-oblique insult songs on their solo albums. George and Ringo clung together during the bitter divorce; George would show Ringo how to make his songs more interesting (usually a Dsus4 chord was involved) and Ringo would teach George how to smile again after years of pious grousing and the emotional fallout of his free love lifestyle. Brothers to the end. Of course, they would later have the last laugh as the Ringo album was a surprising mega-hit and you couldn't turn on the radio without hearing a mass of George singing the virtues of Krishna. John and Paul would continue on their paths of genius ("Freda Peeple," all of Red Rose Speedway), but they were clearly trying to fill the emotional gap of lost friendship with sycophants, double albums, and boring political singles. Sure, it looked like Ringo was waving hello to us under the sea, but he was actually saying goodbye from the coral that lies beneath the waves. 

Robert Bunter: Of course, you're leading me right into a discussion of perhaps the most prized Beatle-related bootleg of them all, Ringo's "Welcome To My House" demo reel. Amazingly, the 11-track collection has still not made its way onto the mp3 blogspots or YouTube clips hastily removed due to copyright violations. Even in the hardcore world of boot wax and tape traders, it's not an easy score. Luckily you and I have our dolby-less cassette dubs purchased from Martin Lewis via a long-defunct xerox fanzine in the early '90s. Picture it: the strings that tied the Beatles together were rapidly fraying in February 1970. The dream was over, in every sense except officially. Ringo slowly trods into his sunlit front room and ineptly spools a reel onto his primitive three-track Brunnell tape recorder. He has a guitar (missing two strings), a perfectly-tuned piano (which somehow manages to sound discordant when Ringo plays it) and the classic Beatles home-instrument (ukelele). A replica Ludwig drum kit was there, too, but he didn't play it on any of the "Welcome To My House" tracks. Ringo adjusts the microphone, hits the red button and "play" at the same time. What happened next was not magical, but noteworthy.

A guileless little tale of escape to an underwater paradise where smiling cephalopods invite you to their swaying-seaweed paradise.

Richard Furnstein: It's a true lost gem. Richie Unterberger completely ignores this crucial item in his otherwise invaluable tome The Unreleased Beatles: Music & Film (Backbeat Books). The recording starts with the title track; you can hear Ringo clear his throat as his strums his faithful G chord and sings "Welcome to my house/A pretty good house/We are friends." The song doesn't really go anywhere (a C chord is introduced after the first verse is repeated) but it has all the sadness and childlike wonder of our wildest Ringo fantasies. Later songs on the record like "Let's Do Lunch" and "A Little Touch Of Paint"only further color the domestic solitude and misdirection of February 1970. "Welcome To My House" later falls apart with a series of imaginary radio plays and a sad interview that Ringo conducted with himself after he realized that he no longer had a band to quit. 

Robert Bunter: Of course you're deliberately excluding the one lost masterpiece, "Liverpool Gardens." Sure it's the same old C chord but something in the tape hiss suggests a gently descending melancholy motion not unlike "Day In The Life" or "Dear Prudence." Ringo's tuneless voice sounds oddly appropriate as he imagines the nicer times he had as a child. Not unlike the fabled infinite typewriter monkeys, primitive Ringo somehow managed to concoct a haunting and evocative portrait of sadly-departed yesteryears on this one. Why this song was not selected for release on any subsequent Ringo solo projects is obvious - it would have rendered all the other tracks unpalatably shabby by comparison. Every Beatle had at least one immortal song in them, and this was Ringo's. The fact that it has been relegated to the dustbin of history, known only to superfans who shelled out the early '90s equivalent of $30 for TDK C-90 cassette dubs, is a source of gloating pride to me. I hope it never leaks into the broader public, actually. This one is between me, my friend Richard, and my other friend Richard, if you get my drift.

While My Guitar Gently Weeps

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




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

I Want To Tell You

Robert Bunter: I can’t believe I’m saying this, but this is unquestionably the highlight of Revolver, which is unquestionably the highlight of the Beatles’ career. That makes George Harrison the best Beatle, thus the best human. Somebody call the people at the World Almanac and have that inserted into all future editions. There are many people who’ll put down George’s early contributions to the catalog, and I’m one of them. But he was shot out of a goddamn rocket on Revolver. “Taxman” was a bracing opener, but “I Want To Tell You” shows that he has managed to equal his older Beatle brothers – not just in infectious pop craftsmanship, but harmonic, lyrical and formal innovation. You’ve got the unusual fade in with a disorienting rhythmic stagger that makes it difficult to tell where the beat falls, the bold yet appropriate use of dissonance, the freaky Eastern harmonies on “I’ve got time” over the fade – I could go on. Simply, this is a knockout home run touchdown to win the championship. The opponents have all been defeated.  

Richard Furnstein: This is the part where I tell you that you are completely wrong, right? WRONG. You are actually right. I've always considered "I Want To Tell You" one of the purest and most beautiful Beatles songs. It suggests an age of discovery that is rooted in bubblegum while hinting at the weirdness and ambition that would catapult The Beatles past mere saccharine treats. I imagine super intelligent aliens would produce something similar to "I Want To Tell You" if you gave them a copy of a 1910 Fruitgum Company album and some gentle early-generation drugs. As you said, it was such an incredible accomplishment for George Harrison at that stage. It's only a year removed from such awkward fare as "I Need You" and "You Like Me Too Much," yet the quality of his Harrison's Revolver material suggests a complete reevaluation of his songwriting contributions to The Beatles. "I Want To Tell You" is the best of the bunch and never sounds like a gangly younger brother of John and Paul's muscle man songs. I honestly don't know if either of them could come up with a song that so perfectly balances innocence and tension.  

Robert Bunter: It’s just exciting, man. This song has an irresistible energy and drive. For once, George’s thick, phlegmy Liverpool accent is perfectly suited to the music. Major buddies John and Paul chime in on wonderful harmonies, of course. Can you imagine how good the guitar solo would have been, if there was one? The lyrics evoke the world of emotions that George was likely feeling during this heady time. Sure, there were countless meaningless groupie conquests and late-night snogs at the Bag O’ Nails club, but in the swirl there may have been a few young ladies who inspired real feelings in this sensitive young man. His fast-paced world didn’t allow their full expression, however. Picture it: Stockholm. 1965. George slowly awakens, looking slim and fit in his fashionable “Swinging London” undertrousers. Last night’s “bird” slumbers gracefully beside him. Gerte (or was it Fabiene?) had some surprisingly complex thoughts on Dylan’s latest LP, and her hair had that great smell that you only get to smell once in a while. Of course, she was stunningly beautiful. They laughed all night, and when she smiled it lit up the whole room. But now it’s 6:45 a.m. and the cold grey dawn is seeping into the windows of this luxury Stockholm hotel. “Eppy” (dapper Beatles manager Brian Epstein) is on the phone and it’ll soon be time to catch the limo to the airport. The horrible shrieking of thousands of kids outside is already audible. Jesus, I don’t even have time to brush my teeth. What was her name again? “I’ll probably never see her again,” George thinks to himself, and he was right. Later that afternoon on the private airplane, George stares out the window, lost in melancholy thought as the other Beatles laugh uproariously in the course of a card game. Mal Evans is wearing a cowboy hat and everybody’s listening to Herman and the Hermits 45’s at the wrong speed. Now that you’re inside George’s headspace, put “I Want To Tell You” on again and you’ll know exactly where he was coming from. That’s the true story of how it happened.

Later that afternoon on the private airplane, George stares out the window, lost in melancholy thought as the other Beatles laugh uproariously in the course of a card game.

Richard Furnstein: Thank you for that. I pictured it. I went online and went to cvs.com and printed it at my local pharmacy. I'll probably frame it later if I stop by Ikea this weekend. I truly want to believe that the genius of "I Want To Tell You" came from pure inspiration--a hint of French perfume on his wrinkly collar--rather than a blind hit from George Harrison. It really does succeed in many areas where George's songs usually fall flat. You already mentioned the appeal of his phlegmy voice on this track--an anchor on many Harrison songs, especially in his 1970s solo output. The bridge is a particularly interesting case: it's a really unique progression. Typically, George's explorations in non-conventional chord structures sound a bit stilted and overly melancholy (put on the Living In The Material World album for evidence). Finally, George slips some of his Eastern-melodic influences on the songs outro ("I've got tiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiime"), giving the song a hint of Champa without completely falling into the Pagladiya River ("Within You Without You" and "The Inner Light"). To be fair, those perilous and perfect undulations sound like they are coming from Paul's golden throat (Paululations!). "I Want To Tell You" is truly George Harrison's perfect game. It's a beautiful thing and it's thrilling as can be, but you almost wonder how the heck he pulled it off!  

Robert Bunter: You’re correct. Let me just take this opportunity to say, was there ever a better drummer than Ringo? His lead-footed beat and primal fills are absolutely crucial to this track. Paul’s bass is wonderful, especially toward the end where the whole thing starts to unravel. John’s contributions are less clear – I’m sure the cleanly picked guitar arpeggios were George’s work, and Paul seems to be the main presence in the vocal harmony mix. I imagine John might have been sitting up there in the control room, with a slightly raised eyebrow as he listened to the initial takes, like “Oh ho? Wot have we here? Thick little George has written quite a good track here, hasn’t he? Perhaps I need to step up my game.” That’s just a little imaginative flight of fancy, I have no way of knowing whether that ever really happened. I’m sure John Lennon never thought or said the phrase “step up my game,” for one thing. But I know this: my earlier fantasy about George and the girl in Stockholm is completely true. It just has that ring of authenticity to it.  

Richard Furnstein: Huh, what? Sorry, I zoned out there for a minute. I was too busy imagining myself in that Stockholm lovers' nest. The morning damp with regret. Heart strings pulled by the stern hands of Grandfather Time. It's a sad and beautiful story and I wish I had the bed sheets for my special Beatles memento collection.

Dizzy Miss Lizzy

Richard Furnstein: "Dizzy Miss Lizzy" is the end of the line, the final stop on The Beatles' Hamburg express. It was a road littered with backstage weisswursts and quaalude smoothies; four boys trying to match the raw buzz of their beloved rock and roll singles. The Help! album was the last hurrah of a floppy haired rock band--before the sound of sitars filled the room and love and money complicated lives instead of simply fulfilling teenage fantasies. "Dizzy Miss Lizzy" is the sound of young men who were still satisfied with the sound of drums bouncing off of unpainted walls, smoky guitar parts, and shredding your throat because it is the last song. The retreat to the studio and from their former selves really began with Rubber Soul and its sophisticated arrangements. Sgt. Pepper's would be the full realization of the artificial world of tape and echo. Sure, they'd try to revisit the primordial wail on Let It Be, but the love was gone. Why would they retreat to the limited palette of early rock and roll when they have climbed the highest mountain of Pepperland. So long, dear friends.

 Robert Bunter: Yeah, it’s pretty raw. A basic 12-bar blues with a repetitive guitar riff, ape-man cymbal assault, screeching vocal through a slapback delay. You’re right that the Beatles didn’t manage to recapture the youthful magic on the Get Back/Let It Be sessions, but it wasn’t all that much later that Lennon managed to re-invent this song in a much more successful way at the “Live Peace In Toronto 1969” concert event. Hairy-scary beardo junkie John in the pure white suit and bloodshot eyes, screeching “Dizzy Miss Lizzy” with Klaus Voorman and Clapton on guitar while Yoko writhed around in a bag. Whoo-whee! SHAKE IT! That was a spectacle intense enough to make those long-ago Hamburg weisswursts look like demure cocktail wieners. The point is, this song has always been terrifying. It sticks out like a sore, infected thumb on “Help!” among the gentle acousticism, McCartney pop, Harrison flops and George Martin piano riffs.

Richard Furnstein: Well, sure, the Toronto version is a horrorshow. Lennon was entering his thirties in half vampire/half Howard Hughes mode, trying to capture some of the vital life essence of his younger years. It's easy to interpret his smacked out Toronto performance of "Dizzy Miss Lizzy" as more than a "Rock and Roll Revival," it was a desperate attempt to ground himself as his childhood friendships and the juvenile comforts of The Beatles years were rapidly dissolving. He would later calmy assert "I just believe in me/Yoko and me," but that performance of "Dizzy Miss Lizzy" suggests that all he could count on was fear and isolation. Look at that man screaming into the void ahead of him. The stage fright filtered through a blitz of drugs and destroyed ego. Lennon's cagey behavior in the footage of that concert suggest a broken man who, while adored by the world, couldn't face a crowd of simple Canadians without being held up by his famous friends and his eccentric wife. It's Lennon doing "his new thing," but it's essentially his old thing (just sloppier). He would later package the set (along with a stirring version of "Don't Worry Kyoko (Mummy's Only Looking For Her Hand In The Snow)" as Live Peace, but the evidence suggests anything but peace. It's a portrait of a thirty year old man at war with himself. Give peace a chance, John.

That was a spectacle intense enough to make those long-ago Hamburg weisswursts look like demure cocktail wieners.

Robert Bunter: The Beatles sure did love Larry Williams. They covered three of his songs, perhaps more than any other artist: “Bad Boy,” “Slow Down” and “Lizzy.” Without the Beatles’ kudos and admiration (not to mention all the generous royalty cheques!), he would have perhaps died in penniless obscurity. As it stands, I’m not sure how he died, or anything else about his life, really. I keep getting him mixed up with Andre Williams, who recorded “Bacon Fat.” The important thing is that the Beatles loved him. They probably rushed to the record shop eagerly to greet each new release, pushing each other out of the way in the queue, waving fistfuls of cash at the hapless clerks. “’Ere then, give us the new Larry Williams, mate!” Then they would rush home to their dank flat and listen to them excitedly. Larry Williams may have died (I am unsure), but his memory will always live on, in vivid recollections like that one.

You Like Me Too Much

Richard Furnstein: Beatles history is full of moments when George Harrison was treated as a second class Beatles citizen. His darkness, youth, and support role meant he often had to take a backseat to the raging egos of John and Paul and the finely pressed shirts of George Martin. It's a revelation to listen to George's 1969 demo of "All Things Must Pass" and realize that it didn't make it onto an album. It was mostly an issue of quality and quantity, but I would argue that the alpha males in The Beatles probably discounted much of George's songwriting efforts after a series of early period stinkers. "You Like Me Too Much" is one of the worst offenders: George delivers a bland melody over an aimless backing track. Young George was offering tales of high school love while John and Paul were off at college, writing songs about hash and one night stands. It's a shame. You can almost imagine Ringo heard this song and thought, "Man, even I'd be bummed out to bring this song to these guys."

It's a train wreck from the saloon meanderings of the song's introduction.

Robert Bunter: Yeah. Even if you give him the benefit of the doubt and the hindsight knowledge that he'd go on to much greater things ("Old Brown Shoe"), this is a shambles. The chord changes at the end of the bridge are just insanely bad. John and Paul had the Bacharach-like gift of moving their songs to striking, unusual harmonic modulations, then cleverly bringing the listener back home with a few adept, economical strokes. George gets himself into the same sort of quagmire, but instead of landing gracefully on his feet, he stumbles through the chords that accompany the words "...if you leave me."


Richard Furnstein: It's a train wreck from the saloon meanderings of the song's introduction, but the resolution of the bridge is almost criminal. You can almost hear the fear in George's voice as he reaches that point. I imagine he's giving Paul and Ringo a helpful nod as they suffer their way through their little buddy's worst song. Sure, George would write perhaps the best turnaround in Beatles history in "Here Comes The Sun," but it's going to be hard for him to live that one down.


Robert Bunter: These lyrics are just unforgivably clumsy and lazy. "You like me too much and I like you" makes zero sense. I am literally sitting here trying to understand what this song is about, and I can't do it. He's giving the kiss-off to an over-affectionate girlfriend. He sounds alternately angry ("you haven't got the nerve") and self-deprecating ("which is all that I deserve"). Is he trying to get rid of her or convince her come back? And it's not one of those things where it's all about the ambiguousness of young love. Harrison stinks.

 Richard Furnstein: That's why they called him the Dank Horse!

Misery

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

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

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

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