I Wanna Be Your Man

Richard Furnstein: "I Wanna Be Your Man" is a sub-ape of a song with few redeeming qualities. It's a simple Ringo shouter in the vein of "Boys" and "Matchbox." The primal bashing and overworked cymbals can't make up for it's lack of depth and sonic shortcomings. The Lennon/McCartney composition was originally released by The Rolling Stones as their second single. It sure was nice of John and Paul to offer those illiterate hairdos some scraps as they were finishing another songwriting genius buffet. "Oh, you lippy chaps are hungry for some material? Why, have this throwaway tune that we were going to give to our tone deaf, childlike drummer." I guess Keith Richards and Mick Jagger were scared of being left behind in the new age of original rock compositions because they gratefully scarfed up that lean meal.

John and Paul later disagreed on the origins of the tune. Paul claimed that they worked it up from a Paul snippet with the purpose of providing a song for Ringo to sing on the second Beatles album. The song was the provided to The Rolling Stones when they requested a Lennon/McCartney composition to release as a single. John claims that "I Wanna Be Your Man" was written in front of the Stones. Imagine the look of humiliation on Mick's face when John and Paul were squeezing out this one in five minutes. "Wanna learn how to write songs? GRUNT, SPLASH, FLUSH." This is a better story and it seems like a classic Lennon ego trip. As a result, I'm more inclined to believe Paul's tale.

Robert Bunter: Yeah, Lennon was often inclined to embellish his memories so as to cast himself and The Beatles in a more flattering light. Furthermore, he seems to have had a real chip on his shoulder about the way The Rolling Stones were cleverly marketed by funnily-named Svengali Andrew Loog Oldham as the raw, bad-boy alternative to the squeaky-clean Beatles. The public image of the Beatles was drinking tea in genteel train cars with grandfathers and warbling “Til There Was You,” while the ‘Stones were getting arrested for urinating on gas station pumps when the attendant wouldn’t let them use the facilities. John resented manager Brian Epstein’s attempt to clean up The Beatles’ raucous leather jacket and hair grease image with collarless suits and bouncy smiles, and there were multiple times through the years where John took the opportunity to damn the Stones with faint praise, or even slag them off outright, as in the infamous 1971 Jann Wenner confessional. I’m not going to repeat what he said about Jagger’s dancing here because it was so mean. Paul was not above the same shenanigans. I seem to recall reading about a special listening party organized by The Rolling Stones to debut their latest release before an intimate crowd of beautiful rich hippie socialites and music industry cognoscenti. Of course, Paul comes walking in with an acetate of The Beatles’ latest single and he just happens to slip it to the paisley-eyed dandy who was operating the DJ station. “Oh, here’s our latest, maybe give it a spin and see what you think, wot?” and it was all seven minutes and eleven seconds of “Hey Jude.” We can only imagine how sour Mick’s roast mutton platter tasted after THAT humiliation. He sulked and pouted but no one could tell because who can tell if Mick Jagger is pouting? Meanwhile, Brian Jones went right home and almost drowned in his swimming pool. I’m sorry but these are the specific true facts.

Richard Furnstein: The Stones really did an excellent job on "I Wanna Be Your Man." It's got a great runaway motor take on the familiar Chuck Berry putt-putt. Brian Jones sounds very much alive on this track, harnessing some harrowing voodoo visions from his slide guitar. Mick Jagger's got a great rough presence on this. He may be pretty, but he's all man. Charlie Watts is reliable and steady in the back as usual. I imagine he smiled once during the recording and the rest of the Stones were relieved to see their elderly friend have some loose boogie fun. "Lookie Watts, e's 'alving a lark!" Bill Wyman sits back in the mix and just paddles swamp water everywhere. Sure, the guy was a Grade A dirtbag IRL, but he sure knew how to have fun on stage. Five stars. They totally make up for the crash and clamor of The Beatles' version.

Robert Bunter: Yeah, when you think about it, it’s funny that the Beatles had this muscular helping of Bo Diddley garage punk earmarked for droopy, short Ringo. He was the Beatles’ obligatory man-child, the template for every subsequent boy-band aimed at the screaming pre-teen demographic. These eleven-year-olds need a Davy Jones or a Joey McIntyre on which to focus the nascent storm of primal energy aroused by the driving rhythms and sweet sugar melodies without the threatening manic patter of a Mickey Dolenz or the broody, simian sulk of a Danny Wood. The more obvious physical appeal of dominant John, matinee idol Paul and sullen George were too frightening; Ringo presented the safe alternative of the runt. He was a full two feet shorter than the other Beatles and his droopy facial features and enormous nose suggested nothing so much as a damp, castrated Saint Bernard. The surging confidence of “I Wanna Be Your Man” would have worn poorly on any of the other three. Ringo was able to deliver the lyric like a cute kid reciting the lurid lyrics to  his favorite song on YouTube. How funny that in real life, he was guzzling Scotch and shaving four times daily just to beat back the beard.

Brian Jones went right home and almost drowned in his swimming pool. I’m sorry but these are the specific true facts.

Richard Furnstein: You can definitely see why The Beatles were determined to showcase their precious little sideshow attraction. You have to give the people a show: a little song, a little dance, and a little humor. Ringo was a flawed goofball there to lighten the mood. Even the name Ringo appeals to children while giving something for the older generation to lampoon. Listen to the broadcasters on The Beatles Live At The BBC collections treat him like a child. It's like Bring Your Ringo To Work Day. Sit in the corner and don't make too much noise, Young Richard.

Robert Bunter: He was game. Ringo went along with the program and played the fool. The Ringo showcase slot would remain a charming feature on almost every subsequent Beatle record. The high point was “With A Little Help From My Friends” on Sgt. Pepper, a fine song in its own right and a perfect complement for the hapless drummer’s irresistible charm. The nadir, of course, was “Yellow Submarine,” which stinks up the otherwise sublime Revolver LP with his tuneless ode to an improbable contraption and the worst sound effects since Mel Blanc tripped on a duck and fell into a pile of bicycle horns. Honk honk! “I Wanna Be Your Man” is a bad deal and just barely warrants its inclusion in the Beatles’ catalog. No doubt it will be included in some future irreverent “Worst Of The Beatles” bootleg, along with “All Together Now,” “Don’t Pass Me By” and “Meat City (original 1966 demo).”

Richard Furnstein: Lo! I would still cherish that turd vessel and file it gently next to my copies of Press, Ringo's Rotogravure, and the John Lennon acoustic collection that has him playing a stupid Ovation Guitar on the cover.

Blackbird

Richard Furnstein: It's a quiet night in for Paul. He pads around his London flat in his woven khussas. Time for a little tea and breeze. A lonely bird called from beyond the black, sharp images dancing across his window glass. "You and me, pal. You and me." Then he grabbed his standard D-28 (strung backwards, of course), sat on a helpful beanbag chair, and joined the lonely bird in a song. Whip-poor-will and wait. Keep waiting. The night will burn off eventually.

Robert Bunter: To me, this is the most beautiful song Paul ever wrote. I think it's better than "Yesterday," "You Won't See Me" and "You Never Give Me Your Money," or "the three second-most-beautiful McCartney songs that all start with 'Y'" as I call them. I will admit that I was surprised, after many years of listening to this song, to hear Paul explain that it was written as an oblique statement of support for the civil rights movement. For me, it was always a song about his own sublimated yearning for independence from the stifling confines of the Beatles' insectoid chrysalis to the free-flying avian future of mature development that was Wings. But the subtexts are really beside the point. It's a beautiful melody and lyric. A baby could understand it. Purity. Simplicity. Unadorned acoustic fingerpicking, no effects on the vocal, don't be afraid to let the mic pick up the sound of your foot tapping on the floor. It's a natural affair. There's a goddamn bird with a broken wing hopping around on sad little bird feet and this earnest, beautiful man is encouraging it to muster its resources and take flight. Are you telling me you wish the other Beatles had been in the studio for this session? You want 1968-era Ringo tom-tom plodding and Lennon's tortured falsetto? Maybe we'll have George add some of the beefy horn sections he was experimenting with on "Savoy Truffle." Yeah, that would be a GREAT idea. Get the hell out of here.

"Blackbird" was always about Paul's sublimated yearning for independence from the stifling confines of the Beatles' insectoid chrysalis to the free-flying avian future of mature development that was Wings.

Richard Furnstein: Hey, great point. Much as been made of the solo recordings aspect of The White Album, but I can only think of one of the songs that would have benefited from the full band arrangement ("Why Don't We Do It In The Road"). The sparse and solo-focused songs are some of the most effective on the album (think "Blackbird," "Julia," and "Martha My Dear"). There is a confidence in the individual pieces of The White Album; it's as if The Beatles were asserting that they were more than the raucous backbeat or the distinctive harmonies. They were producing pure musical love. Is that Clapton on guitar? Is Yoko singing backup? Is John making the pig noises? It doesn't matter, simp. Focus on Paul's voice here--a single beam of light in a pristine clearing. Nothing else matters.

Robert Bunter: Much has been made (by me, here) about the way Paul’s tendency towards crowd-pleasing, eager-to-delight showmanship can serve to obscure the primal essence of the man. I would submit that “Blackbird” actually exemplifies that phenomenon, even though it seems like an exception to the rule. The sparse production and intimate setting seem to be at pains to cue the listener that, hey, this is the real McCartney, caught in a personal moment, behind the curtains – as you evoked so beautifully in your opening statement about the pajamas and the beanbag chair.

Richard Furnstein: Thank you, kind friend.

Robert Bunter: As we listen, our mind’s eye conjures these fantasies. A little too readily, if you ask me. Paul paints a self-portrait of a wistful dreamer cradling his backwards-strung guitar and whistling a little tune for his own personal amusement, and maybe that of the injured crow hobbling around his windowsill. Finally. The man behind the eyebrows. I love you, Paul. Yeah, well, keep your powder dry, Kemosabe. The whole thing is just as much of a contrivance as “Your Mother Should Know” or “She’s Leaving Home.” I’m sorry, but there is only one Paul song that allows us to glimpse the reality of its composer, and that song is “Fixing A Hole.” There’s a lot to unpack there, but we don’t have time right now. We’re talking about “Blackbird.”

Richard Furnstein: Thanks for the reminder. "Blackbird" is the first in Paul's esteemed bird series. The later installments ("Bluebird" from Band On The Run, "Single Pigeon" from Red Rose Speedway, and "Jenny Wren" from Chaos And Creation In The Backyard) share the fragile beauty and reflective tone of "Blackbird" but never reach its wondrous heights. I could write pages about Paul's oaky voice and his absolutely perfect guitar part (still the only part to play when testing out a acoustic). I'll tell you what absolutely slays me, though: the gentle tapping on the body of the guitar. The organic rhythm box would also help define "I Will," but it's almost more effective here. Again, we're down to just Paul. A man with a guitar in a room surrounded by lovely Disney birds. The pulse you hear isn't brutish Ringo and his unforgiving stickplay; it's simply Paul tapping the box. Flesh hitting wood. All come free.

Robert Bunter: Yeah, it’s a light moment on a record that doesn’t have too many of them. Only McCartney’s very similar “Mother Nature’s Son” and Lennon’s pastoral “Dear Prudence” are in the same room of the crazy, endless house that is the White Album (Lennon’s “Child Of Nature,” an outtake that was cut from the White Album lineup and later repurposed as “Jealous Guy” on Imagine, was cut from the same lovely cloth). Otherwise it’s just a nightmarish collage of tiger hunts, oedipal love ballads, cannibalistic swine, unabashed monkeys, terrifying playground equipment, wounded bloody raccoon cowboys, soiled sheepdogs rolling around in their own filth, hairless car crash victims, insomnia, guru betrayal, lizards crawling on windowpanes, violent revolution and toothaches.

Matchbox

Richard Furnstein: "Matchbox" is a lonesome hitchhiker's lament. Ringo stands by the side of the road, thinking about what brought him to this place. He's closer than home than his destination, and he's not even sure if she's waiting for him when he finally gets there. All he has is a name and address on a scrap of paper in his wallet. Why would she give him her address if she didn't want him to visit. He sang to himself while shuffling down the tall grass: "If you don't want Ringo's peaches, honey, please don't mess around my tree." It sounded good and all was right. The sun felt like noon. It's a million miles to dinner, friend. A beat up truck speeds by our weary traveler. The driver never even looked at poor Ringo. 

Robert Bunter: The lyrics are a collection of blues clichés that date back to the turn of the last century, maybe earlier – “poor boy / long way from home,” “wondering if a matchbox would hold my clothes,” “if you don’t like my peaches” and “let me be your little dog ‘till your big dog comes” are all part of the standard repertoire. So there’s Ringo, sitting by the side of the road and lamenting his lot in life. Woman troubles. Oldest story in the book. Mistakes have been made; of course they have. Hers or his? Maybe the fault lies with Fate, written into the great big book in the sky where some damn fool dreamed up the plot of this crazy one-way street called life. Ol’ Ringo’s scraping the bottom of his personal barrel and there’s not much left in the tank. Someone once said “The blues ain’t nothing but a good man feeling bad,” but where does that leave Ringo? He wasn’t that good.  

Richard Furnstein: Quotable Yankees pitcher Lefty Gomez (great baseball name, but non-Latino) once famously said, "I'd rather be lucky than good." Hell, I'd rather be Ringo than lucky, because Ringo is both lucky and good. Is there any other word to describe his life than lucky? From the Rory Storm days to an aging Ringo goofing off with Todd Rundgren at the Iowa State Fair, he remains a solid basher, a competent howler, and a moody charmer. Ringo is just a lucky man in a cruel world. Yet, he gave "Matchbox" his all, but it's still just a D-side on a relatively forgotten Beatles release.

Someone once said “The blues ain’t nothing but a good man feeling bad,” but where does that leave Ringo? He wasn’t that good.

Robert Bunter: Yeah, but it’s fun. The lyrics are downcast but Ringo’s irrepressible double-tracked vocal is the sound of energy and joie de vive. Usually the Beatles’ Ringo showcases involved the three superior talents of the band propping up their hapless, affable drummer, but on “Matchbox” we must award the MVP honor to Ringo. His drumwork and vocals are the only things to really recommend this one; the others are just phoning it in with some blues-by-numbers guitar lines and piano pounding. Even George Martin’s production is lackluster … the stereo mix of “Matchbox” belongs in the Worst Beatles Mixes Ever Hall of Shame along with the queasy mono “Your Mother Should Know.”  

Richard Furnstein: The stereo is an absolute mess. It's probably one of the most disorienting mixes of the early years. The inoffensive backing track is split across the stereo image to heighten the abrasive tone of the cymbals and George's 12 string electric. Listen to those cymbals collapse into the left channel during John's putrid guitar solo. Absolutely terrible job, EMI braintrust. The mono version is a huge improvement.

You are right, Ringo's voice is the only real highlight of this one. He's using his man's voice on "Matchbox," providing an interesting contrast to the puppy dog/poor boy lyrics. He never dips below a holler, so it's a relief that the song flashes off at the two minute mark. The mono version has a softer treatment of Ringo's locomotive vocal.

Robert Bunter: I’m pulling for a revival of this on the next All-Starr Band tour, maybe we can get Kenny Wayne Sheppard to play some blues.

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.

Love Me Do

Richard Furnstein: Oof. Open a window. I'm sorry but the stench of this one really lingers. I guess we have to cover it, though. Alright: "Love Me Do" is The Beatles' first single, so I guess that counts for something. The problem is that it's just not very good. I find it hard to imagine that "Love Me Do" was really their first huge step in becoming the superpower of the century as it offers very few hints as to the genius, majesty, prose, and social commentary of The Beatles' best work. Is there any greater leap than from the lifeless thud of "Love Me Do" to the cosmic awakenings of Revolver in less than four years? First off, the title of "Love Me Do" is complete nonsense. It's not a phrase that is actually used by English speaking human beings. John and Paul try to cover up the idiotic lyrics with their best Everly Brothers routine, but the song's stark instrumentation and non adventurous arrangement don't offer much in the way of support. John insists on bringing his mouth harp to the party and everyone is quickly annoyed. Is this supposed to be skiffle music? I guess skiffle music is terrible, then.

Robert Bunter: I can imagine the hypothetical responses of “Love Me Do” defenders – “You’re not being fair. You have to look at the context of what was happening in the British pop scene at the time. ‘Love Me Do’ was revolutionary because the Beatles were writing and performing their own material, plus it had a nice raw sound that was refreshing to listeners who were being inundated by teen idols and slick pop confections.” That all sounds plausible, but to my ears, this record still falls flat. Maybe the boys were holding their high cards close to the vest, giving it the old slow play so the world would have time to adjust to their haircuts. They’d lay more chips on the table with “Please Please Me” and “From Me To You,” then drop the hammer with the all-in one-two jackpot knockout of “She Loves You” and “I Want To Hold Your Hand.” I guess it’s possible, but the 1963 UK music scene wasn’t the World Poker Tour, and the Beatles weren’t Hoyt Corkins. Listeners familiar with the primitive live Hamburg bootlegs know that the Beatles could have recorded a debut single of considerably greater impact and merit. I’m picturing a beer-stained, Preludin-jacked proto-punk 7”, “One After 909” b/w “Nothin's Shakin'.” I can tell you with certainty that I would cherish my NM+ mono picture sleeve copy of this Parlophone single, if it existed. Instead, the Beatles gave us this penny ante plod-and-wheeze (backed with the equally heinous "P.S. I Love You"). Do George Martin and Brian Epstein deserve part of the blame?

The 1963 UK music scene wasn’t the World Poker Tour, and the Beatles weren’t Hoyt Corkins.

Richard Furnstein: It's possible, but I doubt it was strictly a slow play. George Martin was a respected producer with EMI, with professional roots in the BBC's classical music department. The Beatles were just another handsome beat group and his role was to capture whatever milk leaked from their shallow teats. I'm sure Martin heard "Love Me Do" and thought it was an innocent crossover. It had a spark of spook in the arrangement and a lyric that avoided the sexual confrontation of American rock (The Beatles would head in the opposite direction for the lascivious "Please Please Me"). Martin's role was to gently suggest material since contemporary pop performers were typically too idiotic to write their terrible songs. Epstein certainly had a better idea of their potential, both musically (the pillhead hysteria from the German skratch-und-klaw) and in terms of female and homosexual fantasies. Yet he made a series of nearsighted business decisions, suggesting that he saw their appeal as disposable and limited. It may not have been a slow play, EMI/Martin/Epstein may not have understood the significance of the cards that they were holding.

Here's the greater point: the selection of "Love Me Do" as the first single suggested that The Beatless--despite the famous origins story--were hardly a sure thing. There isn't much evidence to suggest that they were better than "Love Me Do" at the time. The ascent of Beatles man to "Please Please Me" and "She Loves You" was surely against the odds. The Beatles were given their big break and then realized that they only had a stale container of "Love Me Do" soup in the back of the cupboard. They'd warm it up slightly and deliver it in a clean bowl but it was hardly a memorable meal.

Robert Bunter: You’ve got a point there. With hindsight it’s easy to imagine that staid, conservatory-trained producer George Martin and delicate furniture salesman Brian Epstein would have treated their soon-to-be-incredibly-profitable meal ticket with awed deference, but the reality must have been much closer to your description. Their callous disrespect extended to their treatment of Ringo, who had only recently joined the band to replace the broodingly handsome Pete Best. Martin and the rest of the brisk, professional EMI studio staff quickly decided that his drumming on the original take wasn’t up to snuff and ordered a new session, handed Ringo a tambourine, then turned the drum duties over to faceless studio hack Andy White. One can only imagine the smug expression on Mr. White’s face as he settled his pale, underfed London flanks into the lightly-cushioned drum throne and picked up Ringo’s favorite pair of drumsticks. Some (me) even speculate that Ringo’s drumwork was not even the issue – the EMI brass just kept Andy White on hand for all sessions with new groups, in order to bring the poor lad’s confidence down a few notches and show them who was boss. Later, in my fantasy, the drunken sticksman for Derry and the Seniors (the criminally-underrated Giles “Ladbrooke” Gloanbottom) socked Andy White in his swarthy, over-fed face during a particularly tense first session. Meanwhile, hapless Ringo shook the tambourine with all the gusto he could muster on this revised take, recorded almost exactly 50 years ago on September 11, 1962. Subsequent re-issues of this track on various albums and singles have been split about evenly between the Ringo and the Andy White versions; you can tell the Andy White by the presence of the tambourine.

Richard Furnstein: It's entirely possible there was another angle to the Ringo dismissal. Have you heard the drum part on "Love Me Do"? It's hardly a Bill Bruford punishing workout. It's a simple thump/plonk pattern that a child can play. In fact, if your child can't play this beat you should mail him back to the hospital and conceive a new child and then name him Andy White. My point being that it would never happen because that drum part is garbage.

Robert Bunter: Ha! I’m sorry, but when it comes to pale drummers named “White” who can confidently handle a simple beat, I’m choosing Meg White of the White Stripes. Her primal, animalistic rhythms are extremely stimulating, and that beatific, glazed expression on her adorable face is infinitely easier on the eyes than Andy White’s self-satisfied smirk or even Ringo Starr’s hangdog droop-and-frown. She gives us all a lot to think about. I’m sorry, but these are the facts. 

Richard Furnstein: I hear you. It's easy to forget about all of the troubles of a Beatlemaniac when you see the fairer White Stripe handle the sticks and pound out some plump beats. It lends clarity to the vague yearnings and empty pleas of "Love Me Do" and other early Beatles failures. We are all just cavemen, drawn to the pale flesh and tribal rhythms, pulsing in a beautiful collection of need/want/love. Er, pardon me. I've said too much.

Free As A Bird

Richard Furnstein: Here's a fun one. Yoko Ono hands over some scratchy John Lennon cassette demos to Paul, George, Ringo, and Jeff Lynne for a Beatles "reunion" track. George Martin wasn't involved in the recording (he must have been too busy making the horrific In My Life album with Jim Carrey, Goldie Hawn, and the Scottish teacher from the final season of Head Of The Class). Fair enough, George Martin would have been confused by the mid-1990s computer programs required to synchronize Lennon's ghostly crackly demos with Tom Petty backing tracks. It's like a Hiroshima of Dad Rock, and I for one am all for it! The time was right for The Beatles to do something like this: the Anthology series was about to give the world a new case of Beatles fever; Oasis made people believe in Beatles haircuts again; compact discs were a hot business so Apple was set to make a ton of money; and George was not dead. Gimme!

Robert Bunter: George Martin wasn’t involved because Harrison didn’t want him to be involved. Paul would have preferred Martin but George wasn’t willing to go along with the whole charade unless the deck was stacked heavily in his Traveling Wilburys favor by the presence of Jeff Lynne. Paul was leery about this (too much slide guitar, crappy drum sound, Jeff's legendary halitosis) but willing to do whatever it took to accommodate his grouchy former bandmate, since it was important to Paul to reunite the Beatles over John’s dead body and make a bunch of money. Ringo’s over here wearing two different color jackets, looking at the other two like “What?” And that’s just the beginning of all the mind games, ego trips, blatant profit grabs and crass exploitation that combined to ignite the “Hiroshima” that this hideous mockery represents. Get the hell out of here with this unlistenable %&@*!

Richard Furnstein: You are right, they did fly too close to the sun with "Free As A Bird." The song presented a glimpse into an alternate universe where John never died. I imagine The Beatles did a lame surprise reunion set at Live Aid and then a Fall tour across America and Europe. They probably put out a reunion LP in the late 1980s that was comprised of some choice cuts from Cloud Nine and Flowers In The Dirt as well as some progressive Lennon material. "Free As A Bird" would have been from the second LP, which boasted Jeff Lynne production and a return to the songwriting focus of Abbey Road. Maybe they'd make a couple more albums before George was taken by cancer. They'd briefly consider bringing in Eric Clapton as lead guitarist, but Ringo would call the whole thing off. You know what? I would have embraced this phase.

Robert Bunter: Haunting, ghostly voices … alternate universes … flying too close to the sun. The Threetles managed to confront the spectre of their past, the eternal presence of the present and the unknowable void of the future with uncanny grace. Back in the fragrant ’60s, the Beatles somehow managed to conquer show business, art and human culture. Who would have thought that in the barren, arid ‘90s, they would conquer death itself with this striking evocation of a togetherness so powerful that not even Mark Chapman’s foul, cursed bullets could tear it apart? In a way, this is the perfect Beatles track – John’s greatest gift was always the flash of immediate inspiration, never mind the tedious follow-through. He left behind some unfinished yet promising ideas, and his wonderful buddies managed to create an utterly inspired work of art that stands with the highest achievements of their golden years. It’s like John is singing from beyond the grave about the beautiful freedom that awaits beyond this vale of tears. Meanwhile, the ones left behind (it’s Paul, George and Ringo, but really it represents all of humanity, as the best Beatlemusic always has) cast a tear-filled eye back to their common past and wonder if they really can live without each other. It is George’s voice (right before the heartbreaking guitar solo with Because-style backup vocals) which delivers the devastating insight that the heavenly freedom within which John now abides consists entirely of the same universal love force that the Beatles managed to create every time they recorded a new song. It is easy to imagine Lennon sitting on a cloud, looking down with a tender smile at his aging comrades in the studio while they recorded this. “Keep the fire, boys. The world still needs its light and warmth. Keep the fire.”

Ringo’s over here wearing two different color jackets, looking at George and Paul like “What?”

Richard Furnstein: Do you think Cloud John winked and gave a hearty ghostman laugh when he heard Paul nick his bridges from "Remember (Walking In The Sand)" by The Shangri-La's? It's the perfect circle of musical love. Paul conjuring the soft cornered memories of sitting with his teenaged best friend, listening to girl group singles. It's a little infusion of the "old sound," mindful of the past yet looking to the future. "Put on some old records, Johnny! Wait, you don't have one of those little doo-hickeys to make the big 45 hole work with this non-jukebox player? Let's just put on the radio. It's all coming back to me now."

Tell me your thoughts on the "Strawberry" style fake on this one, Robert.

Robert Bunter: I’ll tell you my thoughts, Richard. The fake ending was a cheap gimmick. You can imagine the four of them (Paul, George, Ringo and Jeff) sitting around the studio, chortling, in their weird suits: “So, we’re doing a ‘Beatles’ track … we’ve got to put on one of those fake endings, eh? Ha ha ho. Let’s put in a backwards track with a secret message! It wouldn’t be the Fabs without some gooey harmonies and a striking introduction. John always liked effects on his voice, this cheap cassette has a thin tone that would have appealed to him.” The startling innovations of the ‘60s have become tired cliches, delivered with a smarmy, nostalgic wink from the droopy eyes of three very rich men trying to milk a few more dollars from the wrinkled, weary udders of the Beatle cow. I guess I’d have to say I’m of two minds on this track.

Richard Furnstein: Sure, The Beatles took us to the glorious milking barn with the Anthology blitz. I'm writing this mere feet away from my collection of compact discs, book, and DVD set. I'm even considering ordering the Apple logo denim jacket from the Anthology 1 compact disc liner notes ($125.00 in 1995 dollars, plus sales tax and parcel and postage). Do you think that offer is still valid? Still, give me endless repackaging, re-releases, lost tracks, and digital remasters. I don't want to think of a world without new Beatles merchandise. At least "Free As A Bird" and the (frequently excellent) Anthology releases shifted some focus away from Beatles beach towels and other pointless cash-ins towards actual music. We were clearly being manipulated with "Free As A Bird" (or FAAB, as I like to call it), it's simultaneously a really emotionally blank and charged song. I'll take it, though. Thanks for thinking of my needs, Threetles.

Robert Bunter: The Apple denim jacket will be a key part of your Neil Aspinall Halloween costume this year. Of course, I’ll be Mal Evans (with horn-rimmed glasses and overcoat). We’re going to Gina and Mark’s again this year, right?

Richard Furnstein: I'll pick you up at eight.

Dear Prudence

Robert Bunter: "Dear Prudence" is the Lennon songwriting persona at his most loveable. He's not bewildering, demented, or sardonic, or violent, or self-important (he'll give us a dose of all that soon enough on the White Album's next track, "Glass Onion"). The ultimate central message of the Beatles to Earth (awaken from the slumber of ego and everyday life to the universal spirit of peace and love that fills and surrounds us all) is delivered in simple human terms. No grand pronouncements or political slogans; just the infectious joy of a young child asking his female friend to come and play outside. The whole thing is so lovely that I can feel my heart swelling up now as I write this. Songs like this are why so many people feel an almost religious sense of awe about the Beatles in general and Lennon in particular. It's perfect because it embodies the always-valid artistic adage "Show, don't tell." Even without the lyrics, the gorgeous melody evokes sunsets, ocean waves, swirling galaxies, smiling babies, infinite skies and capital-L Love. I'll tell you what, if I was Prudence Farrow I would have crawled right the hell out of that goddamn meditation chalet and gone outside to play with my friend John Lennon. Oh look, there's Ringo! Let's all have some rice. My heart is exploding.

Richard Furnstein: Bingo. Childhood memories would guide many of John's most successful and endearing songs, but "Dear Prudence" brings John's childlike view of the world (read: emotionally stunted and extremely stoned) to adult human relationships. And it doesn't get any more adult than a spiritual vacation in India with Mike Love, Mia Farrow's dumpy sister, helicopter rides with the Maharishi, and (presumably) sexual escapades in the jasmine and sandlewood mist. So, while John pleas for Prudence to "Come out and play" seem sweet, keep in mind that the landscape was terrifying (elephants) and John was probably trying to push some blue windowpane on the poor girl. "I'd love to turn you on," he once told the world. "Dear Prudence" seems to be a mission statement to turn on one person at a time. It's hard to deny John this time, this song is surely one of his greatest.

Robert Bunter: I see what you mean, Richard. There are lots of adult complexities here. After all, joyful children don't write brilliant melancholy pop anthems to express themselves, they just run around and smile. We're listening to a grown man, perhaps mourning what is lost by attempting to recapture it. Lennon later admitted that he was almost suicidally depressed during the seemingly happy and mellow Rishikesh retreat. By so beautifully evoking the ecstasy of childhood, John leaves an overwhelming impression of sadness. I think this may be one of the saddest songs the Beatles ever wrote (up there with "You Never Give Me Your Money," "For No One," "While My Guitar Gently Weeps," "A Day In The Life" and "Junk," if we're counting outtakes). I'm eager to start discussing the musical brilliance of this track, but as I listen repeatedly, I keep filling up with tears. I remember my black and gold bicycle, the creek at the corner of Elm Creek and Ewing, a pretty girl who just moved into town, a pocketful of promises. Facebook just showed me photos of her son's third birthday party. How the hell am I supposed to write about bass lines and tom-tom fills? Jesus Christ. I'm crying.

Richard Furnstein: I'm right there with you. The lyric "The clouds will be a daisy chain so let me see you smile again" suggest the clear air and direction of a child's summer morning. John knocks us over the head with that lyric and then the angelic voices of George and Paul lift the trees and poppy from the Easter fields, suspending the season's bliss in a perfectly blue sky. No wonder you are feeling the feminine drops on your face, my dear friend.

I'll say this: the arrangement on this song is perhaps the greatest in the entire Beatles catalog. John holds steady with his delicate appregi, a figure that would haunt later compositions "Look At Me" and "Out The Blue." George is all quicksilver beauty on the lead guitar. And Paul? Well, Paul's bassline is perfect in every way and he delivers my single favorite drum part on any Beatles song. I'm sorry, Ringo. I will always love you, but I'm sure the Heinz and toast felt heavy in your stomach when you heard Paul's prizefighting rope-a-dope from 2:50 to 3:32. That's 42 seconds of complete destruction on Ringo's drum kit! I've played that part back a million times in my life and I'll never understand how he did that. It's one killer roll and then a triumphant pulse past the finish line, into the collapsing leaves of the willow tree in your mind.

John knocks us over the head with that lyric and then the angelic voices of George and Paul lift the trees and poppy from the Easter fields, suspending the season's bliss in a perfectly blue sky.

Robert Bunter: Ha! That really hits home. I'm just going to toss out a few insights here and hopefully curb my impulse to rhapsodize about this amazing song for hours on end. Okay: that fingerpicking pattern was taught to John in India by Donovan. Here's how that little episode went down:

Donovan is lightly tickling a clumsy melody by the banks of the Ganges. "Wot's that, then, Don?" "Well, Johnny, they call it 'fingerpicking.' You just take yer plectrum and throw it away! The fingers do the work. Put your thumb here, then do a little diddle-de-de with your other two phalanges, ey wot? There, that's the trick, isn't it? Now you've got the hang. Isn't this a beautiful day?" And then John was like, "Thanks, Donovan. You'll have to excuse me, I'm going to go write "Julia" and "Dear Prudence" and "Look At Me." It's a shame about your lack of talent; so utterly inferior. What's that tune you were working on? The one about pooping in space?" And then Paul was like, "Fingerpicking, huh? Listen to this!" and he plays "Blackbird." The score? Beatles infinity, Donovan zero. Sorry. I guess you should have kept the secret of fingerpicking to yourself, you scurvy Scottish freak.

Okay, a few more quick things: the background vocals don't even sound like the Beatles. Listen to those "round round rounds" and "ahhhhhs" on the bridge. It's creepy, they sound like weird old men. Next: this song has the best slow burn of any Beatles track, and that includes "Hey Jude." It starts out like delicate sun-pillows but in the space of three and a half minutes it transforms into a total headbanger, then gently touches down right where it started, just like "Back In The USSR" before it. Finally, I'd just like to add that I'm plagued by doubts and terrified of the future.

Richard Furnstein: We'll get through this together, pal. I just wanted to add that this may be the best production on any Beatles song. Sure, George Martin treated the mustache and epaulettes era with more care and gadgetry, but I really love the full and direct approach on "Prudence." The White Album was intended to be rough and ready, but "Dear Prudence" seems like a different type of beast. The song's beautiful production matches the sunlit and freckled faces that pepper its lyric. I'm not sure if The White Album ever quite matches this perfect combination of song, performance, and recording. And, you know what? That's alright with me.

Robert Bunter: [silence]

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!

Act Naturally

Richard Furnstein: They are going to put who in the movies? Well, you, of course. The you in question is Richard Starkey, or, as his IMDB page indicates, "Ringo Starr." Ringo received big points for his acting turn in A Hard Day's Night (kicking cans, wearing a low slung hat, and generally appearing less stoned than the other Beatles) and turned this appearance into a healthy little side gig. He's appeared in movies that you never want to see like Candy, Caveman, and Magical Mystery Tour, usually playing the sad eyed weirdo with a thick accent. Don't quit your day job, Richard! Or, at least wait until after you release Goodnight Vienna to quit your day job.

Robert Bunter: It’s true! Ringo, who spent his childhood dreaming of coming to America to be a cowboy, had a country and western heart. He sings this Buck Owens shuffler with genuine gusto, and of course the whole thing is a wonderful tribute to his innate aw-shucks image as the hapless goofball who stumbled onto the world stage with only one real talent: the ability to be himself. His wonderful, charming self. It’s no wonder Ringo made by far the biggest splash when the group stepped off that 1964 Pan Am jet and into the world’s collective heart. It wasn’t just the funny name or the non-threatening androgynous little boy charm that girls could have a crush on without stirring unconscious fears about the bruising realities of adult physical relations (a role that would be subsequently played by the Monkees' appalling Cockney subhuman Tinkertoy automaton Davy Jones). He was the one who was easiest to relate to. He probably looked at the other three with the same sense of awe as the rest of us, but there he is onstage with them! They’re “mates.” “Maybe there is hope for me,” is what everybody said to themselves as they watched this homely lad pound the Ludwigs and smile like a five-year-old with a new wagon.


Richard Furnstein: You are one hundred percent correct and I'm shocked that it's taken us a year and change to truly discuss what makes Ringo inherently great. Sure, he held his sticks wrong and he famously couldn't nail the beat on "Back In The U.S.S.R.," but Ringo is the glue-stuff of life. I wouldn't cross the street in socks to sniff Pete Best and he was certainly a capable drummer. The Beatles needed a lucky charm, and found this stumbling sweetheart of a man to complete their gang. When Ringo sings "they're gonna put me in the movies," he's not talking about movie executives or a Hollywood agent. He's referencing his unique journey, riding on the crest of genius towards stardom. Ringo is but a man, but chemical compounds in The Beatles would become unstable with anything but Ringo. "What would you do if I sang out of tune?" We'd love you with all of our hearts, dear buddy. Thank you for being you.

“Maybe there is hope for me,” is what everybody said to themselves as they watched this homely lad pound the Ludwigs and smile like a five-year-old with a new wagon.

Robert Bunter: Ringo must have been such a fun guy to hang out with. I love to speculate about how funny he must have been during the first-time-smoking-reefer with Dylan experience, or between takes on the set of "Help!" I can imagine him saying a bunch of hilarious stuff, and John, Paul and George becoming breathless with uncontrollable laughter, the way you laugh at a seemingly dimwitted friend who is always saying unintentionally hilarious things and you almost wonder if he even knows why he is so funny but really of course he completely knows, it's all just part of his wonderful personality that he's willing to play the fool. And then later, the party's over, everybody's gone home, you wake up and realize that he washed the dishes and played with your kid for an hour before school. How did he even get up that early? Good old uncle Ritchie, just hanging around the kitchen and whipping up a batch of his delicious beans and toast, exactly the way Julian likes it, while you're upstairs sleeping off the acid hangover and writing the bridge to "I Am The Walrus" in your unconscious mind. You ought to be ashamed of yourself and your selfish behavior, John Lennon.

Carry That Weight

Richard Furnstein: Without a doubt, the lightest of the lightweights in the Abbey Road medley. "Carry That Weight" is not much more than Ringo bellowing in the cavernous Abbey Road studios and some lovely callbacks to the momentous "You Never Give Me Your Money." It's a reassuring final sprint for the boys; reminding us once again that they were human beings all along. Ringo's tone deaf shouting lent a similar everyman sheen to art house numbers like "The Continuing Story of Bungalow Bill," "Flying," and "You Know My Name Look Up The Number." "Carry That Weight" is his final shout in his Beatles costume, following this moment he would ascend to the heavens during his rapturous drum solo in "The End."

Robert Bunter: Lightweight? This song weighs a ton. You do realize that this is the sound of the Beatles confronting their impending breakup and the knowledge that the rest of their lives will be defined by the enormity of what they'd accomplished over the past ten years or so, right? How do you think it felt to be in that studio, shouting along with Ringo on what they just knew was going to be their last hurrah? I'll tell you how it felt: they were crying. John looked over at George and there were tears rolling down his face. That made John start to well up, and then he looked over at Paul and remembered the first time they met at the Woolton fete. Paul was just singing, not really crying, but then he looked up from the microphone and remembered the time he and Ringo stayed up all night talking in Rishikesh, and thought about how the whole thing was going down the pan and they were breaking up. George Burns was there, too. He was holding a top hat to his chest and trying to keep from weeping. I have the footage.

How do you think it felt to be in that studio, shouting along with Ringo on what they just knew was going to be their last hurrah? I'll tell you how it felt: they were crying.

Richard Furnstein: Fair enough! I just meant that there's not much to the song. All the cool bits are from that other song. But, sure, this band went from crusin' for some sweet hand holding to reflecting on how they devoted their twenties to dramatically shifting cultural and artistic trends. It's like Paul knew that he was facing the next lifetime alone. No more John to carry the burden of lean years (London Town). No more George to lend sweet harmonies and licks to every little thought that he put on tape (he'd have to keep Denny Laine on salary for the next ten years for that). No more Ringo to trumpet the childlike innocence that fueled their creative process. A dark road laid ahead, filled with triumphs, missteps, McCartney/Starr co-writes, breast cancer, assassinations, synthesizers, and Nigel Godrich productions. Can you carry that weight? Well, dig in, brother. It's coming.

Robert Bunter: McCartney/Starr co-writes? Huh? (shakes head in startled disbelief and makes cartoonish "e-yada-yada-yada" noise) Do mine ears bewitch me? Hold on a minute, I'm going to consult the computer about this. [...] I don't see anything. You made that up, right? Please tell me there aren't really any McCartney/Starr co-writes.

Richard Furnstein: Hold on to your butt! No, seriously, hold your butt closed. Poop is going to escape your body when you hear this song.

Robert Bunter: That song makes Wild Life sound like Band On The Run!