Teddy Boy

Richard Furnstein: Paul McCartney's songbook is full of sketches of the daily lives of simple folk. "Teddy Boy" fits well with better known songs such as "Eleanor Rigby," "Penny Lane," "Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da," "Lady Madonna," and "She's Leaving Home." They all provide a portrait of the quiet moments of common people. The subjects of these songs flutter about like impatient extras on a movie set: a middle aged man pours his morning coffee as a baby babbles in a playpen. A young woman runs to catch the morning trolley while tugging at her sagging pantyhose. A shadow lingers over these portraits, often in the form of death, loneliness, or shattered dreams. The Let It Be outtake "Teddy Boy" brings all three to the table as a widow and a child try to support each other in the changes following the death of a "solider dad." It's a vague story but the essential emotional cues are there: a child hugs his mother as she cries over a solider's photo. Paul can hardly narrate this touching scene, offering platitudes such as "oh my" or "oh no." You created this world of misery, man. Help these people out.

Robert Bunter: It seems to have been a default mode for him. When Paul sat down and picked up a guitar and let the ideas flow naturally, a seemingly infinite stream of strong melodic hooks and third-person Everyman portraits bubbled to the surface. “Teddy Boy” illustrates this particularly well, as it never developed past the fragmented rough-draft stage. Even the “completed” version that appeared on his debut solo LP McCartney sounds like little more than a sketch. It’s catchy enough, and the darker undertones you describe add a bit of depth, but few would rank this among his highest achievements. It doesn’t even shine very brightly alongside similar, roughly contemporary Macca throwaways like “Junk” or “Her Majesty.” Every time I buy another Get Back sessions bootleg or outtakes compilation and see “Teddy Boy” on the tracklist, I have to suppress a faint groan of disappointment.

Richard Furnstein: At least you try to hide your disappointment in this song. You can actually hear Lennon's deride"Teddy Boy" in the band's aimless Get Back recordings. His distaste surfaced in the form of  jokey voices, rambling asides, and square dance instructions during the song's protracted coda. You can almost feel the cold air and ambivalent vibrations of Twickenham Film Studios come through your speakers when you listen to this song. To be fair, Lennon was pulling this too cool for school routine on all of Paul and George's offerings during this period. It's just that he was actually right this one time.

"Teddy Boy" is much more successful on the McCartney album. It's still not much of a song, but the arrangement is tightened up significantly. To be fair there are probably 1.5 fully realized compositions on Paul's debut and it's still one of the best things he ever recorded. The recording offers many of the charms of the album: muffled drum tracks, light echo box tricks, the warm ambiance of the McCartney living room, and off-kilter Linda harmonies. The small touches such as the gorgeous "ooooooohs" at 2:02 and the fluttering ending really make the recording. I wish Paul, Linda, and Martha the sheepdog were still in that living room, pumping out lo-fi  delights on a dusty Studer tape machine. Stick around for dinner, there's a vegetable barley soup on the stove and Linda is making her famous yeast crepes. We'll listen to some old tapes together.

Robert Bunter: Yeah, it’s a lovely image. Too bad the McCartney album and its trappings of domestic contentment (warm, homespun songs about family and love accompanied by charming snapshots of Papa Paul chopping down trees, holding babies and picking his nose) is one big lie. Here’s the real facts: John quit the Beatles but everybody convinced him to keep quiet about it because they were in the process of a massive renegotiation with the record company and didn't want to upset the applecart (that’s my little joke). Paul is an emotional wreck and retreats to his Scottish farmhouse where he grows a beard and drifts slowly toward a full-scale Brian Wilson-style breakdown. Stops wearing belts. Vodka for breakfast, sacked out in bed all day, showers optional. Very optional. A reporter from LIFE magazine shows up and Paul screams in his face and throws his camera at him. The fans have started to speculate about whether he’s dead. One can only imagine what newlywed Linda thought of the situation. She had climbed aboard the Paul train just in time to see it run completely off its rails. Drunken sadness and paralyzing numbness gradually coalesce into fury. They can’t do this to me! So in an undisguised power play he cobbles together McCartney on primitive home recording equipment (by today’s standards, anyway – in 1970 it was state-of-the-art) and releases it along with a self-interview press release to tell the world that he’s quit the Beatles and doesn't care about them anymore. Against this backdrop, the Happy-Family-Man-Strumming-His-Guitar-By-The-Evening-Fire vibe that the album and its packaging attempted to convey ring chillingly hollow. You can build up sweet mental fantasies about tape recorders and yeast crepes, Richard, but the reality was considerably more hairy, smelly and toxic. I’m not here to sugarcoat the facts.

You can build up sweet mental fantasies about tape recorders and yeast crepes, but the reality was considerably more hairy, smelly and toxic.

Richard Furnstein: Paul's retreat to his country compound was part of a greater social trend at the end of the sultry sixties. The unwashed legions were retreating to the mountains--a new farm movement featuring malnourished children, diseased livestock, and bog-like conditions in the fields. Neil Young captured the simple pleasures of this movement on "Here We Are In The Years" from his 1969 debut album: "Go to the country, take the dog/Look at the sky without the smog/Look at the world laugh at the farmers feeding hogs/Eat hot dogs." Paul wasn't as dim witted or charming in his appraisal of country life. He just reverted further into the familiar comforts of mama-based blues and ballads built for wide open spaces. Want to play some mason jars and record it for the album? Great, we'll call it "Glasses." How about an audio hunt track to really "get back" to the origins of man? Here's four plus minutes of "Kreen-Akore." There were no expectations. John wasn't leering at him when he introduced some bone-headed blues like "Oo You." He didn't have to worry about George's sour puss appearing in the gatefold. Ringo didn't have to be bored during the sparse "Every Night." That's the charm of the McCartney album. It's beautiful and it's nothing at all.

Robert Bunter: Back to the land? Sure, it’s wonderful that Paul could crawl into a filthy swamp and record a strangely beautiful solo album. But we’re supposed to be talking about “Teddy Boy.” It wasn’t a very good song and it came out of a particularly low point in Paul’s life. The outtake/bootleg versions of the Beatles attempting it are hard to listen to. It sits more comfortably among the half-baked platters and weird experiments of McCartney or the dismal vibe of the aborted Glyn Johns Get Back LP. Look Richard, I’m sorry but this whole discussion of yeast pancakes, stinky groat clusters, hot dogs, body odor, vodka, sheepdogs, sagging pantyhose and rotten Apples is making me nauseous. Let us have a little mercy and draw the soiled curtain of dismissal over this sordid chapter in Beatles history, shall we? Do you have any final thoughts?

Richard Furnstein: Yeah, hold on. Urp. No, that's better. I'm good.

Honey Pie

Richard Furnstein: Oof. Get a load of this shiny turd bouncing around with a top hat and cane. How did Paul McCartney find the nerve to unleash this stench in the hallowed halls of Abbey Road? At best, he should have dropped this stinker in the comfort of his own home, never to be revealed to the world. Close the lid, flush, and walk away. "Honey Pie" should be nothing more than a scratchy demo created on his Brunnell tape deck: a holy grail for the many McCartney Cold Cuts devotees. As it stands, The Beatles should have provided a barf bag with The White Album instead of that collage poster. At least then unsuspecting rock and roll fans would have someplace to deposit their chunky mouth waste after hearing this awful song. I mean, COME ON.

Robert Bunter: Listen more deeply, friend. “Honey Pie” is indeed the third installment of what was to become a long line of McCartney’s affectionate tributes to the prewar music hall supper-club standards that he so admired (“When I’m 64,” “Your Mother Should Know,” and certainly many more in the solo years – a process that culminated in 2013’s geriatric Kisses On The Bottom standards album, a brilliant late-career masterpiece which will one day receive the same critical re-evaluation that belatedly dawned on McCartney II and Wild Life). You would be correct to turn up your nose at Paulie’s smirking, saccharine platter (or at least as correct as you are about anything else to do with McCartney, which is hardly at all). “Honey Pie” is elevated by its context. Alongside the sour, dark and frightening moods of much of the accompanying material, Paul’s soft-shoe shuffle seems less like a carefree romp through a rose-colored yesteryear and more like a grown man wearing a tiny little boy’s sailor suit and holding a balloon and lollipop on the outskirts of some nightmarish construction site where three other men are grimly setting about the business of tearing down your fondest illusions with poisonous tools and jagged vehicles. The man-child hugs his balloon tightly to his chest and closes his eyes. His face is covered with stubble and the sailor suit needs washing. He hums a happy little song to himself and tries to ignore the stench of death but it creeps in. Listen to that chord on the word “crazy.” This song is every bit as heavy as “Glass Onion” or “Revolution 9” for them that have ears to hear. Listen … listen.

Richard Furnstein: Sure, this malformed batch of rock candy makes some sense sitting next to the sleaze boogies of "Revolution 1" and "Savoy Truffle." We have George Martin to thank for his wise sequencing choices for The Beatles.* Indeed, The White Album may be his greatest track listing accomplishment.

Okay, let's find something to like about this track. George Martin's arrangement connects the rooty-tooty tin pan alley sound with black and white movie schmaltz. The clarinets make the song. Paul does a great Ringo impersonation with his delivery of the line "in the U.S.A." In fact, I always hope that it is Ringo, straw boater clutched to his chest as he passionately delivers that lyric. I was shocked to read that John even bothered to play anything on this cloud of granny flatulence, but there he is poking out that jolly guitar solo. It truly was a team effort to make something this rotten. The Beatles didn't polish the turd, they just wiped a tea towel over it and got human waste all over their hands. Wash up, boys.

Robert Bunter: If you’re willing to acknowledge that the song makes some sense in context, I’ll meet you halfway and admit that there are some cringe-worthy moments. Paul’s falsetto warbling of “oooh … hah … I like this kinda hot kinda music, hot kinda music, play it to me, play it to me honey with blues” is really goony, and you can just tell that he thinks he’s kidding around, but you know deep down that he meant it. Let’s face it, this kind of music is at the primal core of McCartney’s soul. When you hear Paul slip into that debonair crooner mode (from “Besame Mucho” on the Beatles’ earliest crude EMI demo acetates to the aforementioned recent Kisses On The Bottom digital download disc file), you’re really listening to the deepest soul of the man. He can’t help it, and it’s beautiful.

Richard Furnstein: It's true. The gentle shuffle and swing of the music hall was in young James Paul McCartney's bloodstream. His father Jim was a trumpet player and pianist in Jim Mac's Jazz Band in the careless twenties. I've always heard Paul's granny music tendencies as his attempt to connect with the frivolous age of his parents, before the gloom and urban decay of war took over sooty England. In a way, it's easy to hear these songs as Paul's primal scream: the harrowing echoes of childhood. The lost promise of the youthful smile in photos of a mother that died when was 14 years old. While John drained his gleets all over the studio floor during his punishing exorcisms on Plastic Ono Band and the "Cold Turkey" single, Paul chose to channel his loss and anger into levity, thrown voices, and bubbling trumpet lines. "My Mummy's Dead" b/w "Daddy Won't Buy Me A Bow Wow." I guess we all have to face our demons on our own terms, Robert.

You’re really listening to the deepest soul of the man. He can’t help it, and it’s beautiful.

Robert Bunter: I really agree with everything you’ve written there, Richard. The reason Paul’s granny material is so vexing is that he was quite evidently capable of crafting extraordinary work in any style of music he put his hand to. C’mon, man! How about another “Penny Lane,” another “Helter Skelter,” another “Blackbird,” another “Maybe I’m Amazed”? Quit ladling out tepid bowls of Uncle Swabson’s Olde-Time Buttercreamed Oaty Meal when we know you’ve got a perfectly divine spiced crown roast of premium-grade top loin there in the kitchen, just waiting to be served! Well, I’m afraid that’s not always how it works. Stop being a pig. He’s provided you with plenty of nourishment over the years, thank you very much. I’d like you to take a little mind-journey with me here, OK? You’re a kid and you’re Paul McCartney’s nephew. He gives you wonderful presents and you love him very much but you don’t get to see him often because he’s still quite busy. A visit with “Uncle Jimmy” (as you call him) is a rare treat. But then there was this one time when you got to spend a whole weekend there. Mum and Pap dropped you off at his Scottish farmhouse for some quality time and it just so happened that his then-wife Heather Mills was away that weekend and none of the other family were visiting. Just you and him. He is charming, doting and attentive. Fixing breakfast, taking a walk by the lamb pasture, watching a little TV. Then, in the cool September evening as the sun is starting to set, he sits down at the piano in the parlour. He’s going to sing you a few songs! Even as a young child, you’re aware that a private musical performance by Paul McCartney is a rare treasure. So what’s he going to play? “C Moon”? The middle part of “A Day In The Life?” “Kreen-Akore?” Get the hell out of here! He’s going to play the simple, beautiful music that lies closest to his heart. “Stardust.” “It’s A Sin To Tell A Lie.” “September In The Rain.” “My Funny Valentine.” He’s going to look you right in the eyes and smile. The two of you have never been closer. With songs like “Honey Pie,” we all have a chance to be that nephew. His name is Bobby. Little Bobby Bunter McCartney. If you want to turn your nose up at that and quarrel about tracklists and guitar solos, that’s fine. Me and Uncle Jimmy …. uh, I mean … hypothetical nephew Bobby McCartney and James Paul McCartney … will be right here in the front parlour. We’re doing just fine.


*Two crucial clunkers in Martin's album sequencing for the band are the brutal side closing covers on Beatles For Sale ("Kansas City/Hey-Hey-Hey-Hey" and "Everybody's Trying To Be My Baby"). However, this was probably due to lack of quality material for the album.

Little Child

Robert Bunter: I think there are really a lot of important things we can say about "Little Child," the primal crucial track on With The Beatles. It was on this song that the Liverpool foursome was finally able to shed their happy-go-lucky image and grapple with the darker side of the '60s revolution and changing social mores. Despite its early vintage, "Little Child" represents the ritualistic transformation of the John-figure from innocence to maturity. We all must understand this.

Richard Furnstein: Listen, I'm going to be honest with you on this one. I've got nothing to say about "Little Child." I couldn't care less about John's mocking pleas for physical love, the reckless harmonica tracking, and the motorisch refrain in the fade out. We've been there before. This guy had issues with women and a tendency towards self pity when he didn't get his way. Let's do something useful with this forum. Think outside the box. Actually, do you want to talk about "Listen To What The Man Said" from Paul's 1975 solo effort "Venus And Mars"? It's been on my mind lately.

Robert Bunter: Ahem. I think there are really a lot of important things to be said about "Listen To What The Man Said," the primal crucial track on Venus And Mars. The story of Paul McCartney is the story of a guy who could write the greatest songs in human history ("Penny Lane," "You Won't See Me," "Maybe I'm Amazed"), but his real pleasure was writing catchy throwaways that played to his natural strengths in the realms of melody and personal charm ("C Moon," "When I'm 64"). It was a source of real struggle for him. The intense, committed fans were wracked with desperate thirst for more life-sustaining liquid from the same deep, profound well from whence came "You Never Give Me Your Money," but the keeper of  the keys to the bucket was just as happy doling out paper cups of brightly-colored Kool-Aid like "All Together Now" or "Your Mother Should Know" to the ignorant slack-jawed masses. For Paul, it was not about providing the deepest artistic fulfillment to the most discerning of die-hards but reaching the widest possible audience and making them smile as much as possible. At times Paul seemed to struggle with the burden of being the goose that laid the golden eggs and strive for works of elevated merit, but then he might be just as likely to turn around and unleash a defiant piece of fluff like "Silly Love Songs" or "Her Majesty." You can see where I'm going with this, right? The final mind-bending truth is that Paul's throwaway fluff was in fact the High Art all along. His true medium was AM radio and magazine clippings, not 180-gram sealed audiophile deep-groove vinyl artifacts and gilded oil paintings. "Yesterday" and "Hey Jude" were the real fluff, the second-rate album filler. The Truth was hidden in plain sight on tracks like "All My Loving" and "Listen To What The Man Said" all along.

Richard Furnstein: Paul McCartney fully embraced the stadium pop leanings of Wings on the Venus And Mars album. Sure, there were sugary pop moments all over the two previous Wings albums (Band On The Run and Red Rose Speedway) and on the overblown "Live and Let Die" single, but they were tempered by the low-key experimentation of the fledgling band. Even the easy listening pop of "My Love" seemed somewhat lo-fi and weedy rather than glossy and smooth. Venus and Mars found Paul McCartney in full-on mega pop monster mode (look no further than the opening number "Venus and Mars/Rock Show," a "Band On The Run" style suite that paid tribute to the stoned masses who would come out to see Wings in American stadiums). "Listen To What The Man Said" is the only pop hit on Venus And Mars, and it was strong enough to provide all the support that was needed for the Wings Over The World mega-tour. Wings had become the well-tuned/profitable/muscularly musical machine that The Beatles never were.

Robert Bunter: John Lennon did more than his share of singing about how the world needed more peace, love and understanding, but it was McCartney who actually delivered the goods. Lennon's latter-day Beatles and solo output ranged from turgid to terrifying, with stops in-between for political harangues and trite sloganeering. Albums like Plastic Ono Band invite the listener to curl up in a fetal ball under a set of headphones and painfully absorb the heavy vibes. Nightmares, tears and perhaps, by the end, redemption. But meanwhile, if you were to just take off those dusty, stinky headphones and look out the window of your darkened teenage bedroom, you might see that the whole rest of the family is outside near the swimming pool, laughing and belly-flopping while a platter of freshly-grilled hamburgers and fruit punch sits expectantly in the July sunshine. And what's on the AM radio? I'll give you one guess: it's Paul McCartney singing "Listen To What The Man Said." Listen to that clarinet happily tooting along! Lennon's tortured, epic Statements bemoaned the walls that separate us and the lack of human communication, but Paul was content to provide the soundtrack to our lives and brighten up the air with a tune so sweet it might make your teeth fall out.

Here is one anonymous listener in a comment posted under the "Listen To What The Man Said" YouTube video clip: "Ten seconds into the song tears flowed down my face, hurting/longing for the days of this songs era, and the flood of happy childhood memories the song suddenly brought to me. I would do anything to go back to that time for just a little while." Here is another: "1975 - 7 yrs old, back seat of Mom's Plymouth Valiant, headed to the beach. God, I miss those days..." And another: "This song reminds me of Summer picnics by Lake Michigan...yes, the 1970's was a great era in music!"  One more: "When this song came out in 1975, My girlfriend and I loved to sing this song together in the car at the top of our lungs. We would then laugh until our sides hurt." Check the page yourself - there are dozens of them, each more heartbreaking than the last. Paul touched the hearts of a generation and brought real love and happiness into the world at a level that scary John, sanctimonious George and drunken clown Ringo could only dream of.

Don’t read too much into it, mate, it’s just a pleasant boogie that is guaranteed to shoot straight up to the top of the charts. You’re getting into a weird area.

Richard Furnstein: For all of their hair and blood, Lennon's most grotesque demonstrations couldn't match the brutal reality portrayed in this happy-go-lucky pop song. The scene is set early: "Soldier boy kisses girl, leaves behind a tragic world." It's a fun image: horny, stupid kids having drunk fun during liberty. However, we can interpret this deceptively simple lyric two different ways. One interpretation is the act of physical love gives the man and woman a temporary escape from the horrors of war and tedium of life. The other interpretation is that the tragic world is the result of their regrettable romantic encounter. That innocent kiss lead to the conception of new life. Unfortunately, human beings are inherently evil, resulting in a lifetime of damage, wreckage, and misery. I'm inclined to take the latter interpretation of this key lyric. Indeed, the intent of that line would be the first question that I would ask Sir Paul if I ever had the chance to meet him.Remember that The Beatles were a product of post-war Europe, much like the fine-tuned pop machine of Wings was fully realized following the Vietnam War. Paul certainly knows how to bring us into his tale of passion and tragedy.

Paul lets a little light into the house with the next line. The soldier is ambivalent to the tragedy surrounding his love: "But he won't mind. He's in love and he says love is fine." It's a classic call back to the monosyllabic word play of early Beatles, including the jumbled use of the word "love" which recalls classics such as "Things We Said Today." Paul seems to be saying that we're already stuck in this world, taking our slow steps towards death. We may as well make the most of our time here. Love is a simple fix, but it will still do the trick.

Robert Bunter: That’s all as valid an interpretation as any, but I think this is one of those cases where Paul is using the lyrics as a simple decorative vehicle for his intoxicating melody, performance and production. He did the same thing on “Jet,” “C Moon,” “Uncle Albert/Admiral Halsey,” “Hello Goodbye,” “Come And Get It” and so many others. To quote my beloved Nicholas Schaffner, “[Paul’s solo work] brings to mind a chocolate egg – tasty, if just this side of sickly sweet, but it crumbles when you try to sink your teeth in.” The soldier boy, “the people,” “the Man” – these are all just syllables for Paul to croon while those tasty bongos, lovely Linda harmonies, funky clavinet and sprightly Dixieland clarinets do their thing. “Don’t read too much into it, mate, it’s just a pleasant boogie that is guaranteed to shoot straight up to the top of the charts. You’re getting into a weird area.” But here’s the twist: Paul’s hasty lyrical sketches may have unwittingly pulled back the curtain on Paul’s true nature far more than any of John’s nude confessionals or childhood exorcisms. Who is the titular “man”? Maybe he is Paul himself, beholding his own reflection in an infinitely-regressive funhouse mirror. What did the man say, Paul? Tell us. We are you.

Richard Furnstein: Paul is certainly no stranger to phonetic scoot babbles--especially during some of the feel good/free and easy Wings period. Think of his wordless exultation that concludes "Powercut" from the Red Rose Speedway album. I think there is more to the story here. You are right that the secret lies with uncovering the mysterious "man" in the title. I think there are a few intriguing possibilities in Advanced Man Theory:

1. Paul McCartney-Wings was Paul's show: a fully realized but necessarily loose outfit that Paul could manipulate to knock out some loose rock ("Soily") or mechanized pop sheen ("With A Little Luck"). Remember back to a haggard George battling Paul in the Let It Be movie about doubling a rote bass guitar line. George was right to fight back on the condescending Paul ("I'm only trying to help you."), and certainly used this moment to help realize the majesty of All Things Must Pass. Now Paul was reminding the record buying public that he was still the one to "listen to." His pop vision was true, steady, and--most importantly--financially sound.
2. John Lennon-It's easy to imagine a dialogue between Lennon and McCartney during their solo years. The world was hoping that these long lost brothers would be drawn back together; following a string of clues and gentle winks in their assorted solo catalogs. This theory is garbage, however. Paul was singing about Linda or marijuana-induced wordplay. John was singing about himself or Yoko. It's sad, really.
3. Brian Epstein-Paul was no stranger to looking back with love. The death of Brian Epstein signified the end of the brotherhood of The Beatles so it is easy to view him as this symbol of creative control and focus. There never was a "Man" for The Beatles. Politicians and police officers had little impact on the sheltered lives of geniuses and the gurus were quickly exposed and discarded. Brian remains as the only real position of authority who could advise these egomaniacs. 
4. The Saxophone-My favorite theory. The Man is nothing more than the dancing, exuberant specter of the saxophone that runs throughout the song. The saxophone represents the loose and free sway of music on human beings. Paul is simply requesting that his listeners sit back and give in to the dancing spirit of this wild and gentle instrument as it scales the trees, giggles on the mantle, and peeks at us through an open window.

Robert Bunter: Now you’ve got the idea. The Man is all of these and more. Paul’s breezy lightweight lyrics are a blank page that listeners can fill with all sorts of heavy interpretations, or just take them as they are. Ob-la-di Ob-la-da and all that. Paul never lost sight of the true nature of his gifts, even while the rest of us kept waiting for him to mine a deeper vein. This song is a cheeseburger. Who is “the Man?” He is Ronald McDonald, doling out infinite billions of warm round brown patties to a drooling populace lined up hundreds deep at the front counter. It ain’t filet mingon, but nobody’s leaving with an empty stomach, either. Did you know that Tom Scott was the only person to play on all four Beatles’ solo albums? It’s true! At least, I think it might be true.

Richard Furnstein: You are right, although he just did some stage work with Lennon. In a way, Tom Scott was the life glue that held this disgraced band of brothers together through the rocky (and rocking) 1970s. His expert gut control and breath force rocketed him to the top of the Los Angeles session men: a scene that the solo Beatles would rely on to anchor their temperamental solo recordings. Long gone were the glory days of "Little Child" and other carefree rockers. The only wind blowing in that time was from Lennon's primitive mouth harp. Friends supported friends, not a L.A. coke-twonker in sight.

Robert Bunter: Well that was an exhaustive analysis.

She Came In Through The Bathroom Window

Robert Bunter: Wonderful. Just wonderful! The medley on side two of Abbey Road stands tall as one of the very best things the Beatles ever did, and the fact that “She Came In Through The Bathroom Window” is actually one of its second-tier songs just points to what a ridiculously abundant smorgasbord they were serving up at this late stage. This track is a prime-cut slab of vintage organic grass-fed Beatles music meat in every way. Many observers (and the band members themselves) have noted that Abbey Road was conceived as a swan song; one last mind-bending encore before the curtain fell on their otherworldly career. At some level, they knew they didn’t have far to go to the finish line. After the at-times-uninspired Get Back/Let It Be project (which Rolling Stone called a “cardboard tombstone”), the group (especially Paul) wanted to rally the troops for one last home run. As much as I wish history had played out differently, it’s not difficult to see that the prospect of their imminent breakup focused their energies and helped them emerge from the sullen, grouchy torpor that had been enveloping them. I think you can hear that energy on “She Came In Through The Bathroom Window” and the Abbey Road medley as a whole.  

Richard Furnstein: Yes, little child. That sound you hear is pure love. The Abbey Road medley was The Beatles flashing their considerable tools one last time. George sounds particularly healthy on this track; his guitar shimmering and gliding with expert precision. Ringo is having tons of fun here: shaking his tambourine as a tribute to hated thronethief Andy White and adding a shattering accent beat in the second verse. Paul delivers this perfect blessing of a song through his genius uterean mind. I'm not sure what John was doing. Does he play that crisp acoustic guitar? Was he just having the junkie shakes in the canteen with Mal Evans? 

Robert Bunter: I think I can hear John on the lovely “Aaaaaah” backing vocals, but that’s not the point. I hear Lennon all over this track in terms of his influence on Paul McCartney. This song has nary a trace of the maudlin sentimentality or cuteness that sometimes mars Paul’s work. His oblique, cryptic story of thieves, strippers and crooked cops seems to emerge from the same crazy town inhabited by the bizarre cast of Lennon characters we just met in “Polythene Pam” and “Mean Mr. Mustard.” The plot of this story never really adds up, but the irresistible, happy-go-lucky momentum of the song evokes a series of car chases, wisecracks and hilarious near-miss escape scenes. The McCartney-figure who appears throughout the Abbey Road medley on tracks like “Bathroom Window” and the second part of “You Never Give Me Your Money” (“out of college / money spent … all the money’s gone”) could be played by Bruce Willis – he’s a rambler, a gambler and a low-down dirty scrambler, sliding through life on a smirk and a dream, but underneath it all there beats a heart of pure gold. The McCartney/Bruce Willis character is counterbalanced by the wistful, philosophical, sincere Paul persona of “Golden Slumbers” and “You Never Give Me Your Money.” Meanwhile, all of the various Paul-figures are counterbalanced and complemented by Lennon’s stoned philosopher (“Because”), creepy deviants (“Mustard,” “Pam”) and gentle tropical hymnody (“Sun King”). At times the medley offers sincere, heartbroken commentary on the rise, fall and dissolution of the Beatles, but these heavy moments are lightened with a typically Beatlesian procession of wacky characters and Everymen. Maybe the girl who came in through the bathroom window is actually the young runaway from “She’s Leaving Home,” a few years older and with some new “tricks” up her sleeve, on the run from a series of parking tickets issued by Lovely Rita. Maybe Mean Mr. Mustard is the same pervert with the mirrored boots from “Happiness Is A Warm Gun.” Are you with me on this, Richard?

There was a real John Lennon who ate food and changed guitar strings, but at the same time there is and will always be a “John Lennon,” endlessly shape-shifting who exists solely in the minds of our brothers and sisters the world over.

Richard Furnstein: You just gave me genuine shivers. I always thought it was the girl from "She's Leaving Home" as well! Returning home to face her parents after her adventures in Eastern thought and increasingly underwhelming sexual intercourse with A Man From The Motor Trade (Bruce?). It's the most unlikely cameo to appear late in this Beatles story. Surely, the lovely Desmond from "Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da," the flawed entertainer that is Billy Shears, or even the anonymous paperback writer would have been a more popular returning character. Yet, it is that lonely, lost girl that crawls back into this grand picture. "Once there was a way to get back homeward," our narrator (Paul) would later observe. She found her one chance out of the champa degenerate lifestyle that was all surface flash and false promises of freedom ("didn't anybody tell her?"). Is she home to stay? Will the familiar sights and sounds of home comfort her?

Here, fair Robert. Are you with ME on this? The girl, the perverts, and the mawkish Billy Shears were all manifestations of The Beatles psyche. The Beatles themselves were heading homeward with the Abbey Road medley. They were packing up their playthings, these manifestations. However, is it the home of Abbey Road Studios, brotherhood, and further sonic explorations or is it a return to childhood freedoms, reliable marital sex, and comfort foods (Ringo's mythical Heinz beans)? We're still guessing.

Robert Bunter: We’ve really gotten to the bottom of the whole thing. When the Beatles sang about fictional characters, they were really singing about themselves. Yes. But when they sang about themselves (“Yer Blues,” “Fixing A Hole,” “Strawberry Fields Forver,” “Hey Jude”, etc.), weren’t they actually singing about fictional characters in some final sense? After all, who is “John Lennon”? What is “Paul McCartney”? Names on an album sleeve? Pictures on a screen? Beautiful voices etched into vinyl and the world’s communal heartspace? They were (and are) real human men with birthdays, nose hair, foibles and underpants, but they are also collective constructs. There was a real John Lennon who ate food and changed guitar strings, but at the same time there is and will always be a “John Lennon,” endlessly shape-shifting (the smirking moptop in a grey suit suddenly morphs into a bearded walrus with granny glasses or a colorful Yellow Submarine cartoon character) who exists solely in the minds of our brothers and sisters the world over.

Richard Furnstein: Will they someday be nothing more than mythical creatures? Will our children's great grandchildren watch the Ed Sullivan appearance and think "That Paul McCartney sure is doing a great Paul McCartney"? Did The Beatles actually exist before they existed? Etches in a cave or spirits in the cauldron. It's an exciting prospect albeit totally depressing (citation: Julian Lennon's Valotte album). The Beatles were the dopey cartoon versions and they were those flawed mortals--recording useless electronic sounds for side projects, getting shafted by false prophets (The Maharishi, Magic Alex), and, yes, breaking up. It had to be this way. They died for all of our sins.  

Robert Bunter: Christianity will go. It will vanish and shrink. I needn't argue with that; I'm right and I will be proved right.

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.

Here, There, And Everywhere

Robert Bunter: Paul McCartney’s ambition ranged beyond his generational peers; he longed to number himself among the great songsmiths of the 20^th century. This was an admirable goal, but it occasionally led him to churn out subpar hat-and-cane soft shoe shufflers like “When I’m 64,” “Your Mother Should Know” and “Honey Pie” (not to mention a whole festering pile of rooty-toot solo tracks). He got it right with “Here There And Everywhere,” though. This is a song that has a structural integrity and verbal cleverness that ranks right up there with the finer work of Cole Porter and George Gershwin, yet it never descends into preciousness or nostalgia. The emotional core is pure and direct, not at all diluted by such trickery as having each verse begin with a separate word from the title, the non-repeated introductory prelude, the unorthodox harmonic modulations and having the bridge lyrics segue seamlessly into the succeeding verse. In the hands of a less-deft songwriter these would come off as showy gimmicks, but McCartney manages to evoke the benevolent warmth that the best Beatle music always does.

Richard Furnstein: A shimmering beauty. It's certainly up there with (its point of inspiration) "God Only Knows" as The Greatest Love Song In World History. Both songs share a similar quality of being at once complex and simple, although Tony Asher's lyrics for "God Only Knows" aim for a much deeper sentiment than "Here, There, And Everywhere."

Anyway, we're lucky that Paul McCartney plucked this song from the heavenly clouds of eternal genius when he did because the Revolver-era Beatles were particularly well suited to record this track. A swell of harmonies raise a glowing banner over the opening lines, before Ringo's gentle cracking leads us into a comforting chord sequence. Paul casts some shadows with a well place F#m ("wave of her hand") before settling back into a comforting tin-pan alley stroll. The performance is a lovely demonstration of restraint. Just listen to the crackle of John's bad boy rhythm guitar and George's sugar glider guitar leads. And then, all of a sudden, the "perfectly lovely" tune accelerates on the milky mile and blasts through the galaxy (right at the moment of "I want her everywhere") as Paul expertly changes key and mood. John and Paul would regularly claim they were just uneducated brutes taking a stab at writing some tunes, as if it was all about stealing some girl group melodies and throwing in some joker chords. That chorus isn't the work of some dumb cavemen, it's pure wonder.

Robert Bunter: Paul's love songs often take the long view - where John tended to be galvanized or tortured by the intense emotions of the immediate present, Paul often seemed to look ahead to the years of gentle mornings, quiet afternoons and tranquil evenings which are the lifestuff of a loving married couple. With John, it was all or nothing - he was in your face, screaming "Help!" or "You better run for your life!" or "I want you so bad it's driving me mad." Paul played it slow and steady, longing for a mellow partner with which he could live on a farm and smoke reefers with. "Here There And Everywhere" fits this template, along with "And I Love Her," "I Will,"  "When I'm 64," "Every Night," "Ob-La-Di Ob-La-Da" and many others. Later he found that wonderful mellow reefer woman and they spent many happy years together.  Meanwhile, John married a crazy artist and spent the '70s lurching from one ridiculous obsession to another (radical left-wing politics, conceptual art installations, drunken party animalism with Nilsson and Ringo) before finally settling on the "stay at home and quietly bake a loaf of bread" plan that Paul was advocating all along. Or so it seemed to the outside world. Unfortunately that's not really how it was. John spent those late '70s post-Walls and Bridges years in an opiated stupor, his body wasting away to nothing and his once-sharp mind reduced to the floppy texture of an over-boiled noodle. Meanwhile Yoko was consulting a series of astrologers and wasting huge amounts of money. I'm sorry, these are the facts. 

Richard Furnstein: Hey man, I wish it wasn't true. John was unfortunately constantly searching for a way to fill his empty heart with life. Lennon's wanderlust combined with his (underdeveloped) political concepts and yearbook-yearning poetic musings capture the imagines of the sensitive and troubled. John wanted love (or, more accurately, to a mother's love) while the world presented him endless opportunities to live out Freddie Lennon's most reckless seaman fantasies. Meanwhile, Paul was similarly pushing towards the light, but found greater comfort in melody, emotional directness, and (you are absolutely right) domestic tranquility. Paul's steady hand would later be exposed as his greatest weakness in the band (his propensity for "granny music" late in The Beatles and throughout much of Wings). I'm certainly not the first to point out the fundamental differences in the Lennon/McCartney songwriting team. Consider for a second that Paul tried to bring emotional security to the neglected Julian Lennon during his parents' divorce in "Hey Jude" while John delivered a rattled and politically confused "Revolution" as the b-side. "Here, There, And Everywhere" can be similarly viewed as a peace offering, a guide to adulthood that takes a different form than John's sloganeering or George's green mysticism.

The whole thing sounds as warm and lovely as a bright morning with the lovely Linda on the McCartney's ramshackle Scottish farm in 1971. A cup of tea and a cigarette; read the latest issue of the Melody Maker while Linda boils an egg.

Robert Bunter: The spare musical arrangement and minimalist studio production show admirable restraint. On an album where the boys were restlessly pushing the boundaries of recorded sound (Revolver perhaps their most boldly experimental LP), they had the maturity to recognize that this gorgeous melody and (deceptively) simple lyric needed no sitars, tape loops, variable speed gimmicks or backwards masking. The guitar tone is bare; the drums are almost comically restrained, and Paul keeps his penchant for busy, clever bass lines in check. The only production flourishes are quite mild - a subtle splash of cymbal leading into the bridge - it sounds like a wave gently breaking over golden sand as the tide comes in (0:55)  - and a hint of Eastern European gypsy exoticism in the second guitar counter-melody (1:02) that leads the bridge back to the verse. Of course, Paul could deliver an emotionally-charged and virtuosic lead vocal, but he opts for a straight delivery of a melody so graceful it needs no adornment. The most prominent sonic element is the gooey "Oooh" harmony trio of John, George and Paul, but even here The Beatles (as I call them) have resisted the temptation to gild the lily. Not too many exotic note choices or melismas, just the basic chord progression.

Richard Furnstein: The stripped down nature of the song provides all the glitter that this song needs. The swelling ocean implied in Ringo's rich cymbal hit is absolutely perfect. The guitars provide some lovely and unexpected textures, including the bright push of tiny amplifier tubes as well as the ambient creaking wood and fret noise that runs throughout the song. I particularly want to call out John's somnambulist  "love never dies" and "watching their eyes" at 1:55." It's all too much.

Robert Bunter: The whole thing sounds as warm and lovely as a bright morning with the lovely Linda on the McCartney's ramshackle Scottish farm in 1971. A cup of tea and a cigarette; read the latest issue of the Melody Maker while Linda boils an egg. Later: vigorous physical lovemaking and an hour or two at the piano searching for melodies. These are the days of our lives.

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.)

Why Don't We Do It In The Road?

Richard Furnstein: Paul gets downright frisky in this offering for The White Album's "zoo side." Paul was inspired to write "Why Don't We Do It In The Road" after watching monkeys copulate on the road in India. Most people would just stash that story away and bring it out for emergency filler at a dinner party, but Paul was driven to write one of his most boring songs after the incident. Like many of the songs on The White Album, the simplicity of "WDWDIITR" seems to be a response to the ornate and meticulous production of Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band. The Beatles' bare boned production works best with the emotionally direct ("Julia," "I Will") and lacerating ("Helter Skelter," "Yer Blues") numbers, but makes the thinner material feel even more underfed and unloved. It is is hard to find much to dig on this one. Ths song goes on way too long (for a song clocking in at 102 seconds) and feels like it is in sharp decline after the thinly recorded power fills in the song's introduction.


Robert Bunter: The key word here is filler. McCartney, the most naturally gifted of the Beatles, was always more than willing to include something half-baked or tossed off. Go dig up any interview where he discusses his solo debut McCartney and you'll find a rather convincing defense of this type of padding. Sticks-in-the-mud see laziness and the need for a harsh editor (like staid, conservatory-trained producer George Martin or the brisk impatience and short attention span of a John Lennon), but Paul says, "Hey, don't be so dismissive. Have a second look at this funny little ditty. Sure, it's no 'Hey Jude' or 'Yesterday,' but what do you want? A whole album full of unassailable brilliance? We already did that three times (A Collection of Beatle Oldies, Beatles '65, Revolver). Why don't you enjoy this sprawling two-disc set in all its incohate glory?" I would say he's got a point. I'll take "That Would Be Something," "Wild Honey Pie," "WDWDIITR" and "Smile Away," thank you. I hope you enjoy your golden platter consisting entirely of lobster, caviar, truffles and wagyu Kobe beef. It's a little rich, don't you think? I've got potatoes and some sardines over here. They get the job done.


Richard Furnstein: I see what you mean, Paulheads have to accept that he's going to throw up some lightweight material at times. You can't have a "Nineteen Hundred Eighty Five" without taking on some "Zoo Gang." Like "Take It Away"? Great, but don't forget to nosh on some "Ode To A Koala Bear" for fiber. This is the man facing the great unknown with the tape rolling. It's almost as if Paul has to shake loose the fragments and ditties to get to the tender meat stuff that will make grown men weep. What are the alternatives? Dealing with George Harrison and his lyrical hysterics and swampy major sevenths? Listen, I get the process, but "Do It Road" kind of stinks.

Robert Bunter: Your honor, I object. Robert Bunter for the defense: if you're willing to grant the acceptiblity and necessity of McCartney's throwaway material, I think you've got a real gem here. Exhibit A: a glorious, throat-shredding vocal performance like only Paul can deliver. Exhibit B: a great extraneous noise (the off-mike "hah?" at :16). The Beatles were geniuses when it came to extraneous noises ("Lovely Rita," for example) and this is a great one. Exhibit C: the lyric. It's Paul showing off his bad-boy side (he would do it again with "Hi Hi Hi" and the likes). It's also strange: why doesn't he talk about doing it on the road? It's because "in the road" sounds more cryptic and unsettling, and the White Album is nothing if not cryptic and unsettling. I'm going to stop numbering the exhibits now - I'd just like to add that it makes a nice contrast with "I Will" which follows and the bass line is totally ill.

Thank God for the wonderful Beatles and their interminable, ponderous White Album and the stupid piece of unpalatable swill that is "Why Don't We Do It In The Road."

Richard Furnstein: Listen, I hear you. I get the "cryptic and unsettling" bit; "WDWDIITR" fits in nicely with the sinewy weeds that reach into the windows of "Cry Baby Cry," "Everybody's Got Something To Hide," and "Long Long Long." I'll take McCartney filler all day, sir. I just don't think I can comfortably swallow this plate of cold, dry spaghetti. Sure, the real meat is right around the corner. Want beauty and depth? Dig into "I Will" and "Julia." "WDWDIITR" is just another station on the weird roadway of The White Album. It is ultimately vulnerable to the "what if" debate that has always followed this double album. But Gosh, let's just give it a pass. It's The Beatles Bloody White Album, ferchrissake.


Robert Bunter: Right, that's what I'm saying. If the Beatles and George Martin had trimmed the double-LP fat to leave behind "a really super single album" (Martin's phrase), they would have lessened the White Album's considerable impact. It's dense and difficult, with sinister undercurrents, bizarre non-sequiturs and melancholy moods. Think of it this way: the Martin-approved single LP White Album (my guess: Back In The USSR / While My Guitar Gently Weeps / Dear Prudence / Mother Nature's Son / Revolution 1 / Martha My Dear / Sexy Sadie / Helter Skelter / I'm So Tired / Blackbird / Ob-La-Di / Julia / Cry Baby Cry / I Will) would have been a widely-acknowledged masterpiece, and the leftovers would have emerged as a fascinating collection of bootleg tracks. But they made the right choice. Thank God for the wonderful Beatles and their interminable, ponderous White Album and the stupid piece of unpalatable swill that is "Why Don't We Do It In The Road." [claps hands slowly in disgusted, sarcastic applause]

When I'm 64

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Robert Bunter: Hoooo!

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

Yesterday

Richard Furnstein: Here it comes, I'm sure we can go deep over this one.

Robert Bunter: Think again: a nice Paul ballad with some sweet strings. Done. Will I receive a check or is that just direct deposit?

Richard Furnstein: An unnecessarily hasty assessment, to be sure. "Yesterday" is the emotional turning point in The Beatles' career. I'll argue that it's Paul's first truly great moment (on album FIVE!) because it so drastically upped the standard for Paul's next year of revelatory songwriting (think "I'm Looking Through You" and "Eleanor Rigby"), as well as allowed John to think past his "moon/June" explorations of pain. And the world is yours once you get that man thinking in stark terms about his emotional damage. Exhibit A: Plastic Ono Band. "I'm not half the man I used to be." John could bleat all over "Cold Turkey" and shave off his hair and curl into the fetal position, but Paul nails the terrifying loss of stability and happiness in that one casual line of single syllable words. His life has dramatically changed in one day; a loss so unthinkable that he questions his position in life and the universe. And all this is delivered in an absolutely perfect melody.

Robert Bunter: There are a lot of people (James Paul McCartney, as I call him, is one) who will tell you that "Yesterday" is the best song the Beatles ever recorded, and they're correct. You're right, it's a stunning exploration of the pain of loss. Superficially it's about a failed romance, but you can tell he's really talking about the loss of his mother. Paul often told the story of how the melody came to him in a dream, fully-formed (no lyrics, though). He went around for a month or two playing the tune to everyone who would listen, asking if they recognized it, since certainly he couldn't have written it in his sleep. But you know he was just being coy; I think he knew all along that it was his. Supposedly, everyone was annoyed at having to hear the thing over and over again. Do you know how much I would have enjoyed the chance to listen to Paul sing this song to me, one-on-one, in a personal situation? The answer is, I would have enjoyed it a great deal. Anybody who got to hang out with the Beatles on a personal level back then and got annoyed with them about anything was a goddamn fool. I'll take the chance! Of course, Paul did sing this song to us, that time when we went to the concert together. I want you to know that that was a special night which I will never forget. Anyway: so the song came to Paul in a dream. You know what other song came to Paul in a dream? I'll tell you: "Let It Be." Or at least it was a dream that inspired it. A dream about his mother. We should all thank goodness that we have been blessed with these supreme products of beautiful McCartney's dream life. I'd just as soon not be subjected to Lennon's hideous nightmares, George's clumsy sex fantasies or Ringo's pedestrian dreams about common subjects like riding the bus or a plate of Heinz beans.


Richard Furnstein: That was a special night, indeed. I remember getting a big tray of nachos (hold the salsa, extra 'peños, por favor) and chowing down during the opener (a tape of Paul McCartney remixes including a mind expanding version of "Temporary Secretary"). Then Paul and Da Boyz came out and leveled the place. "All My Loving," third song. Tears. There were crucial moments sneaking around every corner, and then Paul came out with his reverse strung Martin acoustic and we knew we were in for a treat. "Blackbird"? Yes, of course. "I'm Looking Through You"? Hoho, why not? But, it was "Yesterday," yes, "Yesterday," that leveled me. Where Paul McCartney, that little speck of genius three football fields away, crawled into my brain and gave me a case of the shivers. I've heard this song, what, thirty thousand times in my years? Yet, it absolutely leveled me. Paul knows that there is a shadow hanging over all of us. It's a song that simultaneously makes you want to leave this mortal coil behind at the same time that it makes you want to celebrate the beautify of life, genius, and melody.

Robert Bunter: Woah! Back off, man. No, just kidding. What a show! It was like, even the nacho salesman seemed to sense that it was a special night for all of us. I think "Yesterday" stuck in John's craw a little bit. He used it as a needle to sting McCartney in "How Do You Sleep?", and if I remember right, he had some dismissive remarks about it in the infamous 1970 Rolling Stone interview. I think he just reacted that way because he knew that Paul had been given a gift from the gods of song and he wished he'd gotten it, instead. Is there a comparable Lennon song in the Beatles catalog? A career-defining, undisputed beloved masterpiece? I'd argue that there isn't. What are you thinking, "Strawberry," "Day In The Life"? I don't know. They were important, but not as universal; they had more to do with John Lennon than the human race. I'm drawing a blank here - what do you think?

"We don't want any of that Montovani rubbish."

Richard Furnstein: Well, to be fair, Allen Klein suggested the "only thing you've done was 'Yesterday'" dig. And you know what? Fine. What was John going to say, "the only thing you've done is play the best bass guitar in world history and write piles of amazing songs and helped make my amazing songs better"? No way, because if he said that there would have been a reunion album in 1972 and Paul would have been berating George to come up with better riffs for "Wild Life" or "Mary Had A Little Lamb." That didn't happen, luckily. John knew that "Yesterday" was Paul's ace in the hole; his non-snarky, slogan-free anthem for the world. All John wanted was to connect to the human race. He got there in his quieter moments ("Oh My Love" and "Because") but tended to miss when he went for the big anthems and gimmicks. "Yesterday" is a beautiful song with a perfect arrangement (keep in mind it is the prototype for sensi-dribble like Green Day's "Good Riddance (Time Of Your Life)") that still stops grown men in their tracks.

Robert Bunter: We're really pushing deeply into this song and coming up with some fascinating insights. This blog is amazing, I just wish that I was someone else so I could read it and nod my head emphatically. You're totally right about Lennon's attempts to connect with the human race. What else should we say about this one? We need to give some love to Sir George Martin. His decision to use a string quartet was brilliant. Supposedly the boys resisted at first ("We don't want any of that Montovani rubbish"), but it just perfectly captures the lyric's mood of nostalgia. Close attention to Paul's solo guitar demos shows that the unbelievably tense, brittle chord which first shows up at the 25-second mark (after "Suddenly" and before "I'm not half the man I used to be") was not in the original harmony as Paul wrote it. We're told that Paul assisted with the string arrangement, but who knows if that one particularly inspired chord was him or Martin? I think it might have been Martin. "Paul, why don't we just have the strings do this [plays heartrending chord on piano]?" "Yes, George, that'll do. That'll do fine," says Paul, with tears pouring down his face. Then you look over at the control room and Ringo and George and John are crying. Then the camera pans to the ceiling, and there is a lap dissolve into the future, where two groan men with nacho crumbs on their face are weeping and singing along in the upper deck seats of a crowded sports arena, while a much older McCartney sings the same immortal melody. Then, in a faded-in superimposed image, you see the ghosts of John Lennon and George Harrison and Harry Nilsson sort of benignly smiling down from slightly above, nodding in otherworldly approval. The camera pans and you notice that a heavily-disguised Ringo was seated behind us the whole time (checking out his old buddy's current set), watching with a sort of grandfatherly contentment and thinking to himself, "Yes, that'll do, Paulie. That'll do just fine."

The Long And Winding Road

Robert Bunter: Just as the curtain is about to fall on the greatest band ever, we get one more look at the soft side of a man I like to call James Paul McCartney. This is the Beatle who's given us showtunes ("Till There Was You"), immortal ballads ("Yesterday"), geriatric softshoe shuffles ("When I'm 64," "Honey Pie:) and sweet goopy sugar confections ("I Will"). Now, this gentle soul is going to give us a little bit of the elegaic Ray Charles sound. Cornball harps and choirs threaten to overtake the vocal in a swampy soup of sweetness.


Richard Furnstein: Paul didn't make anybody happy with this ballad. The band seems weary (some signs of life are present in the "many ways" bridge), Paul seems bored and responds by being boring, and Phil Spector tried to spice up this bland chili by throwing swooning angels, Hollywood melodrama, and cozy strings all over this one. Paul later got all pissy about Phil's treatment (leading to the queefing angels free mix on the regrettable Christmas repackaging Let It Be...Naked), but Phil was just giving this pointless song what it deserved. Paul wrote some silver screen dreck, so Phil piled on layer after layer of cheese. You don't like it, Paul? Write a better song. No need to throw a handful of mozzarella on "Let It Be" because that is an amazing song. Seem simple? It is.

Robert Bunter: Like other late-Beatles tracks ("Two Of Us"), this is a song that could be sung to new love Linda Eastman or old buddy John Lennon. Of course, I'm voting for the latter option. The corny, roll-the-credits atmosphere is more tolerable when considered as the sound of McCartney's bruised heart, as he ponders an uncertain future ahead and laments "You left me waiting here a long long time ago / Don't keep me standing here." He's looking at the inscrutable, emotionally distant, heroin addicted wastoid across from him in the Apple studios and wondering what happened to the brilliant teddy boy with the sharp wit and the rock and roll spirit, who he'd once counted as his closest friend and brother? Where did you go, Johnny? I'm standing here looking at this long and winding road all by myself and it's miserable. Why have you forsaken me? Oh man. That's so heavy.

Richard Furnstein: I think the let-it-be-schmaltzy version is the only version of this song to hear. Ringo's gentle touch glides along the soft rock swoons while George and John's boring white squeezings are lost in the abyss of molasses. There are some genuinely beautiful moments in the mix, particularly when the faceless angels swoop in to raise the chill factor. You can almost hear their stupid wings flitting against the studio ceiling in the overblown ending. The angels were trying to get the hell out of dodge before George pushed out "For You Blue."

"Yeah yeah yeah yeah," Paul implores, a lovely call back to the early days of Beatlemania. It's as if Paul is saying, "Thanks for rocking with us, kids, I just traded years of musical innovation into my parents' collection of dusty 78s." I hope I die before you get old.