Sun King

Richard Furnstein: Let's welcome another creamy sunrise, brought to you by The Beatles. Their heliotropic tendences were previously on display in the energizing bounce of "Good Day Sunshine" and the welcoming of the first blast of spring in "Here Comes The Sun." The only relief from the overwhelming feeling of loss in "I'll Follow The Sun" was the image of the sun as this unattainable state of love and happiness. The rooster's crow in "Good Morning Good Morning" underpins the tension, hope, and tedium of the start of a new day. "Sun King" is a lovely ode to five in the morning. The crickets are slowing down, ready to surrender their rhythmic grip on the night. There is nothing but promise and hope at this time of day. The taxpayers are starting their early morning routine. The babies are gazing into their mother's eyes during the morning feeding. The Beatles always represented total renewal: each new Beatles album was a rejection of their previous take on pop music. These four supermen were there to gently guide mere mortals through life. "Here are the tools that you will require to pass through this world, children. It's so fine, it's sunshine. It's the word, love. Carry on with love."  

Robert Bunter: "Sun King" strikes a deft balance between parody and sincerity. On the one hand, the implied image of an exotic tropical people greeting their primitive deity and chanting gibberish could have been lifted from the pages of "A Spaniard In The Works" (one of Lennon's wordplay-and-doodles books). At the same time, the mood established is one of genuine joy and warmth. It operates as a bit of a companion piece to "Here Comes The Sun," which precedes it on side two of Abbey Road. But where George's sunsong finds him exulting in the joy and freedom that he can see in his solo life beyond the suffocating constrictions of the latter-day Beatles, John seems to be retreating into the beguiling yet illusory warmth of a languorous heroin nod. In his opiated mind, the smiling happy natives are greeting the life-giving sky orb and praying for a bountiful harvest. But in the real world? He's "asleep" with his head slumped down at an uncomfortable angle, barely supported by the atrophied muscles in his noodle-neck. The tendons are straining but he doesn't even feel it. Yoko is slumped next to him, in a similar state of numb dishevelment. They are in Ringo's small Montague Square flat which he's letting them use while construction is completed on their massive Tittenhurst estate. Above them on the wall is a condom filled with stale piss that Yoko tacked up as a conceptual art project. I'm sorry, but these are the facts.  

Richard Furnstein: I just checked Lewisohn. You're actually telling the truth. However, I'm willing to give John Lennon some credit for the wonder and optimism of "Sun King." Think about it: Lennon's songs on Abbey Road are pure vampiric misery, "Come Together," "Mean Mr. Mustard," and "Polythene Pam" are full of dripping, elderly perverts and "I Want You (She's So Heavy)" presents a desperate vision of codependent love. I'm willing to blindly accept the optimism and romanticism of "Sun King." If nothing else, I don't want Lennon to continue to disintegrate into the lurching horror figure of the "Come Together" villain. I want a future of Imagines and Beautiful Boys. I want to believe that Lennon is welcoming the new day with songs like "Sun King" and "Because." Time to open these blinds, Yoko! Let's clear out these room service trays. Throw those resin-caked spoons in the dustbin, love. I hear they are serving waffles in the lobby until 11. C'mon, grouchypants. You love waffles. We'd better hurry!

In John's opiated mind, the smiling happy natives are greeting the life-giving sky orb and praying for a bountiful harvest. But in the real world?

Robert Bunter: That’s a beautiful image. I can imagine a white pajama-clad John gallantly operating the make-your-own waffle station as smiling Yoko wipes the dreams from her eyes. A few startled fans wander over. “Is it really him?” “Why, of course it is! Would you like them extra brown? How about a dab of huckleberry jam and powdered sugar? It’s natural!” Yeah right Richard, get into the real world. There was no waffle station at Ringo’s Montague Square flat. It was an apartment, not a Days Inn. Do they even have waffles in England? Let’s focus on the music. This song is cut from the same cloth as “Don’t Let Me Down” and “Hold On” from the Plastic Ono Band album. John seems to have discovered hard drugs and how to flip the tremolo switch on your amplifier and go from an E to an F sharp minor at approximately the same time. I’ll tell you what this track reminds me of: the Beach Boys’ “Smiley Smile.” It has the same prominent organ (!), lovely harmonies, goofy humor and heavy-lidded stoner haze.  

Richard Furnstein: I definitely hear the connection to the half-realized jokes and weirdness of "Smiley Smile." The other obvious connection is to Fleetwood Mac's "Albatross." The Beatles lift heavily from Peter Green's composition, referencing the song's reverb-drenched atmosphere and the storm-like undulations of John McVie and Mick Fleetwood. The Beatles rise above the mentally unstable yet dreamy textures of classic Mac with a lush wall of harmonies. Then, in order to separate themselves even more from England's new sensation, Lennon, McCartney, and Harrison toss out a series of playful Italianglish terms. It's as if they were returning once more to assert their dominion over Europe. Where The Beatles once recorded their popular hits in German (“Sie Liebt Dich” and “Komm Gib Mir Deine Hand”), they soon realized that Beatles was in fact the universal language. Kids in Arizona related to their dank London vibes. Beatles tapes and blue jeans were the foundation of the Russian black market. "The Inner Light" plays over a supermarket P.A. in Vishakhapatnam. Some guy in Zimbabwe picks up "I'll Get You" on a transistor radio. It's real.  

Robert Bunter: You’re right, that’s a really valid point that has a lot to do with the song “Sun King.”

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.

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.