Got To Get You Into My Life

Richard Furnstein: Welcome to the Revolver building. Why yes, this building does have a thirteenth floor. Great question, young man. Let's check it out. (Elevator door opens to beefy horn blasts.) Now, you may ask, is this really The Beatles? Sure, we love them for their hard charging rock like "It Won't Be Long" and loping jangle of "Ticket To Ride," but this sounds like alien soul music. The horn arrangement sounds like ambulances powering down a highway in the middle of the night. Ringo and Paul are united in this discrete (and surprisingly) gentle pulse, defined more by tambo slaps than the deep groove explorations like "Paperback Writer."


Robert Bunter: Huh? What’s that? You’ll have to excuse me, I was just picking my face up from the floor because it’s been blasted off by this high-powered Beatles track. Whoo-whee. SHAKE IT! Let’s talk about album sequencing – this would have made a fantastic opening track for Revolver, with its expectant mood and surging exuberance. Any other band would have done that, but, characteristically, the Beatles had a better idea. By placing “Got To Get You Into My Life” second-to-last on side two of what has already been an astonishingly brilliant album, they create the surprising impression that the record is actually gaining new momentum as it nears the finish line. Then, of course, they up the ante dramatically with “Tomorrow Never Knows.” Game over. Revolver is a microcosm of the exponential development arc of the Beatles’ pre-White Album career. It starts out great, then it just gets better and better and better. Better than you ever could have dreamed. Then, all of a sudden, it gets 500 times better than that. Hyperbole? THAT’S AN UNDERSTATEMENT.

Richard Furnstein: You're not wrong! Listen, "Got To Get You Into My Life" is a top ten song. "But The Beatles have a ton of great songs, Richard. How can you say that?" Listen, man. I'm not talking top ten Beatles, I'm talking top ten all time. I couldn't tell you if it's about drugs or love or sunshine, but I can tell you that hearing this song is as close as we humans will come to actually levitating. I'm talking gliding down the sidewalks like in a classic Spike Lee trolley shot, the gladiolas blur past our faces stunned in bliss. Are we heading towards the sun? Of course we are. Good Lord, there may be two suns in the sky. Anything is possible right now.

Robert Bunter: Did you hear McCartney on Fresh Air the other week? Terry asks him if he felt concerned about notions of authenticity when they were young, white English kids attempting to play American rock and R & B. Paul says something like, “We weren’t sophisticated enough to worry about stuff like that, we just thought it was fun to have a go. We knew we couldn’t compete with the masters.” That’s exactly the point: American music styles (in this case, Motown/Stax) were just more dabs of paint on the palette. They could plunder and appropriate genres for their strengths, without feeling any need to prove their authenticity. British artists who didn’t learn from this wise example fell flat on their faces. Listen to Eric Burdon’s putrid bellowing or the flatulence of Alvin Lee “singing the blues” and try not to barf.

Richard Furnstein: The difference is that The Beatles would root their genre explorations in actual songs, rather than just hairy chested moon howls over a blues dirge or damp noodle bellows over flute escapades. With that in mind, "Got To Get You Into My Life" is actually a pretty light song for McCartney. The demo version from Anthology exposes the delicate underpinnings of the song, an organ drone and some rough background vocals. This early version highlights the strength of the horn section and George Martin's arrangement. The Revolver alternate takes are the highlight of the Anthology discs, and "Got To Get You Into My Life" is the best of the bunch. It's almost a completely different song in its naked state, revealing the incredible creativity at this phase. It's what I like to call "the departure point."

Revolver starts out great, then it just gets better and better and better. Better than you ever could have dreamed. Then, all of a sudden, it gets 500 times better than that.

Robert Bunter: Yeah, I just listened back to that version, too. One of the things that struck me was the Eastern-sounding harmonies of John and George’s backup vocal parts (first appearance at :43). There are some very similar moments of non-Western diatonic dislocation in the vocal tracks of “I Want To Tell You” (during the fade), “Love You To” (“You don’t get time / to hang a sign / on meeeeeeeeeeeee”), McCartney’s “Taxman” guitar solo and it’s backwards reappearance in “Tomorrow Never Knows.” I must say, in the case of “Got To Get You Into My Life,” I wish they’d left them in. It was a nice, freaky motif for the album. Leave it to the Beatles to take something as unappealing as moaning, dissonant backup vocals and turn it into a glorious asset. One point of disagreement: “Got To Get You Into My Life” is the best of the Anthology Revolver outtakes? How unfortunate that your defective copy does not include the happy giggle version of “And Your Bird Can Sing,” which is universally acknowledged as such.


Richard Furnstein: The giggle take is fun, but life isn't a slumber party goof fest. You would certainly rejoice at the altar of EMI if they released the 27 minute version of "Helter Skelter" with Mal Evans making fart noises over top.


Robert Bunter: “You’re not wrong!”

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]

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]

I Want You (She's So Heavy)

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

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

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

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

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

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

So heavy.

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!

Doctor Robert

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


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


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


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

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

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

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.

I Want To Hold Your Hand

Richard Furnstein: I'm not even sure how I should analyze this song. It's a powerhouse tornado storm locomotive sent from heavenly angels to demolish the stale mediocrity of pre-Beatles rock and roll. It's not the greatest song that The Beatles wrote but it may be the greatest song ever written. No, that doesn't make sense. It doesn't matter. Put on the mono version (clearly) and spazz out. Good luck to your floorboards. Hide your valuables, because I may start stealing things.

Robert Bunter: Yeah, that's some assault, pal! I think there's a real violence implied here: the insistent throb of the bass frequencies, the pounding drums, the handclaps like slaps in the face. These surging mopheads represented a threat to the conformist social order, not to mention YOU, the listener. If you're a boy person, you'd better watch out or get with the program because these fresh-fangled supermen are about to take all the girls. If you're a girl person, the raw sexual energy is so powerful that all you can do is rock back and forth in your seat and scream at the top of your lungs. Look at the old footage. Do those girls look happy to you? They have tears streaming down their faces and their eyes are wide with terror. They pull their hair and screech and probably they wet their pants. I don't envy the poor custodian who was in charge of seat wipe-downs in the upper decks of Shea Stadium in 1965, that's for sure. They were screaming in ecstasy, but it was ecstasy of a very edgy sort. They were driven straight out of their heads. Meanwhile, mom and dad are scared, but for different reasons. The last time Father saw anything like this was on the beachhead at Normandy. Mother sees something in Daughter's eyes that is chillingly familiar; remember, she was the one who had to do all the laundry. And young Robert was looking straight at the Sunday night Ed Sullivan TV set with glazed eyes, possibly the most terrified of all. Nothing will ever be the same now; these four lads are miles ahead of him in a race that he didn't even realize was being run. Lots of catching up to do, son. You might want to cancel baseball practice.

Richard Furnstein: All this from a song about HOLDING HANDS. It's an innocent act, like millions of color tinted photographs of little kids wearing oversized adult-styled clothes while holding hands. Aw, how cute. It's not cute, this is how trouble starts. A gentle touch of hands after you move closer to her after coming back to the couch after a "get psyched" trip to the bathroom. An exploratory fondle underneath the booth at a bar. This is how babies are made and diseases are spread and hearts are broken. The Rolling Stones would take it much further in mere months, but they were probably satanists and ate venereal diseases for breakfast. The Beatles were just well meaning boys who were a touch overdue at the barber's. Or were they? Man this song does it all!

I don't envy the poor custodian who was in charge of seat wipe-downs in the upper decks of Shea Stadium in 1965, that's for sure.

Robert Bunter: When things soften up during the middle eight ("And when I touch you I feel happy / inside"), it doesn't really soften up at all. It's an obscene mockery of a tender moment, like a guy whispering "Here, kitty kitty" to a frightened cat in a dark alley that he's about to bludgeon to death with a cat hammer. The confident singer has been screaming in your face about his wants and needs; then all of a sudden the bottom drops out and he's sweetly cooing for just a few seconds, until he can't contain himself any more and starts screaming "I CAN'T HIDE! I CAN'T HIDE!" in a moment of such primal intensity that it wouldn't be out of place on a Stooges or MC5 record. The vocal harmony is in fifths, with no major third to smooth out the sharpness. I'll say it again: this record takes us to unsettling places usually obscured from sight during sane, daylight hours. The Beatles? Innocent young boys looking for a snog on the naugahyde love seat? Richard, these are four violent monsters. John was like one of those Aztec chieftans you see in the crude paintings at Mexican restaurants, with an ornate Eagle beak mask attached to his head, leading a young virgin up the steps of a hideous temple to have her heart cut out to appease Xpoctxzl, the Mushroom God. Paul is a mother snake, eating her own writhing young, still clicking and shiny with the glistening secretions of snake birth. George is one of Alex's droogs from "Clockwork Orange," ripping the doors off suburban homes and violating their screeching inhabitants. And Ringo? He was like a cross between Pennywise the Clown, Alfred E. Newman performing impossible violations of physical laws on the cover of Mad Magazine and one of the unspeakable malevolent forces in H. P. Lovecraft stories.

Richard Furnstein: Okay, point taken. "I Want To Hold Your Hand" is like a prequel to one of The Beatles' greatest accomplishments: "She's Leaving Home." John and Paul had the nerve to rip apart our social structure with their incredible music and bold new approaches to hygiene and causal sex. The world had to change with them; it took real balls to write a tragic song about the changes that they forced on the globe. The past was boring and typically in black and white. Then, after the dust settled, the full prism of deviance, addiction, and rot was exposed. That old drunk in the park was no longer a touch of local color, he was now a shifty eyed speed freak who rubbed his sagging torso against the jungle gym. Your cousin decided that her dream to become a stenographer was boring and now lives with an old biker in a rat infested city. You don't even want to know how she makes money now. The Beatles surveyed the land and realized that they created this technicolor fallout: broken homes and an insurmountable generation gap. Then they wrote "She's Leaving Home" as an olive branch to the world. "Sorry I wanted to hold your comely daughter's hand, I didn't realize that it would destroy your narrow dreams."

Robert Bunter: That's exactly what happened. Did you ever notice that this song doesn't even seem to have distinct instruments? Sure, there's guitars and basses and drums and voices, but they all seem to blend together into one big rumble. The effect was heightened when the song came out in 1964, before the era of high fidelity audio reproduction systems. Back then, the only places to hear this song were on portable record players, AM radio, or the laughable speaker cone on your parents' TV when the Ed Sullivan show was on.

Richard Furnstein: "Ladies and gentlemen, The Four Sexual Aliens Who Will Reconfigure Our Minds And Create Uncomfortable Distance Between You And Your Children!" (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/)

If I Fell

Richard Furnstein: Good old soppy John Lennon has written a love song, or as close as a love song as he could get at this fragile early stage. He's offering up his heart to a young lady but can't stop bringing up his heartache from a recent relationship. The song quickly goes from the tender sentiment of the first verse to complete emotional insecurity and mind games. John's desire to love is trumped only by his desire to get back at his ex-girlfriend. "So I hope that you see that I would love to love you and that she will cry when she learns we are two" is such an incredibly twisted line. This is young love with an eye towards the rear view mirror. Hold me closer, tiny dancer. That girl that broke my heart is watching us...

Robert Bunter: You’re right about the lyrics – John’s still dealing from a deck stacked with anger, jealousy, spite, uncertainty and betrayal, thanks to his childhood traumas. But for me, the most noteworthy elements here are the musical construction and vocal performance. The melody and chord progression are just utterly lovely, the opening bars are an early example of the Beatles’ career-long habit of starting songs with an arresting intro, and the graceful Lennon/McCartney vocal duet is a small miracle of intuition. This melody would be completely beautiful as a solo Lennon vocal. It would also sound great with George chiming in on some gooey three-part chord stacking a la “This Boy.” A straight duet would have been nice, as well. Yet with their typically unerring instinct for perfection, they decided to use a combination of nicely harmonized lines and unison passages. Mark Hertzgaard described this as sounding like “two meadow hawks, gently gliding around each other” or something like that (I have the book in the car but I don’t feel like going down to get it), and I’ve never been able to listen to this song without remembering that beautiful image. He also described the piccolo trumpet on Penny Lane as sounding like a hummingbird who pauses briefly before a flower before hovering away in delightful patterns. What is this, “Wide World of Animals?” Nice imagery, Hertzgaard, and great song, Beatles.

John’s still dealing from a deck stacked with anger, jealousy, spite, uncertainty and betrayal, thanks to his childhood traumas.

Richard Furnstein: Without a doubt, you are right. Hertzgaard is right. The birds are right. You don't think hawks understand love? Spend some time at a bird sanctuary, son. You'll see beauty, joy, trust issues, in-flight doing it, and other emotional improbabilities. It's all here and dressed up in the loveliest arrangement and recording that The Beatles had yet attempted (yep, that includes "This Boy" and "And I Love Her"). Lennon gives it one of his single best melodies and this one goes in the all time Lennon file along with "Instant Karma" and "Strawberry Fields Forever." Absolute perfection.

Robert Bunter: What else is there to say? I remember the first time I heard this track, as a young man listening to a radio on a Saturday evening near a fireplace in Drexel Hill. Even at the age of seven, I recognized the presence of sophisticated adult emotions that I had no business knowing about yet. I was given to know the bewitching enchantment and paralyzing uncertainty of love. I remember jotting down some notes in my primitive child’s handwriting on the inner pages of my well-worn Trapper Keeper. I still have the paper … it says: “Bewitching enchantment … paralyzing uncertainty … consult Hertzgaard for bird similies,” and then underneath that there’s a drawing of a man sitting on a whoopee cushion and it says “BLAAAAAAT!” coming out of the seat. Those wonderful childhood days have passed, but this immortal song will never go away. Listen to it now, friends, and celebrate the beauty. Happy new year, Rich. 

Richard Furnstein: And a ding dong ding dong to you, too. 

Something

Robert Bunter: Try to hold back the tears as you wave the last goodbye from the driveway, Mum and Pappy Beatles. Your little boy George is all grown up. Remember the gawky little goon with the big teeth and intelligent eyes? Well, he’s got a beard and a wife and a narcotics conviction now. He’s written an immortal classic on his way out the door, just like his bigger, better brothers have been doing for so long. It’s not a blatant Lennon-McCartney knockoff (“You Like Me Too Much”), a curry-flavored novelty track (“Love You To”), an interminable, half-baked acid hangover (“Blue Jay Way,” “It’s All Too Much”), or the inestimable “Old Brown Shoe.” “Something” is the work of a mature craftsman and consummate professional, at the top of his game. Here’s the mental image for this one: mighty George stands seven feet tall and surprisingly fit, with his flowing beard and long hair, at the top of a mountain with the wind blowing and the clouds moving past too quickly in speeded up stop-time animation. His eyes have seen eternities; he stands on the verge of freedom. A pack of prime stallions rumbles by gracefully in the valley below (represented by Paul’s bassline and Ringo’s tom-toms); George, unperturbed, looks down and nods with solemn approval. You didn’t even realize he was carrying a guitar, but suddenly he is playing it and it’s the most beautiful solo you ever heard. Everybody starts to cry but George just stares into the infinite, spiraling center-point of limitless potential.

Richard Furnstein: Real chills, there. "Something" is one of George's rare graceful songwriting efforts. The bridge was always a trouble spot for young George--earlier efforts were marked by awkward transitions and percussive cover-ups or, in the case of the psychedelic years, he would forgo the bridge (and often a second chord) completely. Here, it's the most beautiful moment of "Something," transcending the effortless elegance of George's descending chord structure in the verses. He proved to John and Paul that he could stand up straight and tall with them. He passed the test and was ready to enter the world a man. I know you already said that, Robert. But it's true. And I'm crying.

Everybody starts to cry but George just stares into the infinite, spiraling center-point of limitless potential.

Robert Bunter: Don’t cry, Richard. This isn’t just another former-goon-finally-writes-great-song story, like those of Bill Wyman (“Je Suis Un Rock Star”), John Entwhistle (“My Wife”) or Roger Waters (“Several Species Of Small Furry Animals Gathered Together In A Cave And Grooving With A Pict” … no, just kidding. It was “Take Up Thy Stethoscope And Walk.” No, LOL. “Time.”) See, you're smiling again! Tears are for children, Richard.

George didn’t write this primal, crucial ballad because he wanted to live up to the standard set by John and Paul. He wrote it because of the same reason why any man ever does anything: he was in love with Patti Harrison, nee Boyd. The unstoppable adolescent hormonal force that inspired the early moptop puppy love throbbers has given way to a very mature, adult sophistication. George’s lyric emphasizes the ineffable, complex nature of his feelings; “somewhere,” “something,” “somehow” – he’s not sure where or what it is, despite the assurance that “I believe (and how!)” The most intense moment in the track (not counting the immortal guitar solo, of course) emphasizes this uncertainty: it’s the “I DON’T KNOW” on the bridge, when George’s soft, mellow vocal tone is raised to a roar. There was a time when he was happy just to dance with you; now he’s caught up in a dense yet ephemeral fog of conflicted emotions. The music seems to float like dawn mist above a warm salt marsh; Paul’s bass provides a gentle, tugging undertow, Ringo’s elementary beat is the very essence of simplicity, George Martin’s effective string arrangement sweetens the mood without becoming cloying.

Richard Furnstein: Let's talk about that solo and the string arrangement for a minute. Word is that George delivered the solo live in front of the orchestra. It's one of the most beautiful and perfect mental images ever. George absolutely delivers his greatest solo, just pure love beams shooting into the sparkling eyes of Mrs. Boyd. I'd kill for some video of George recording the solo with the orchestra. I can't believe everyone kept it together to keep bowing and plucking and whatever it is that string players do. I'd give anything to be there in that moment, just like I would have loved to have been a fly on the wall when Freddie Mercury delivered the "Okay!" in "Under Pressure" or when Chess Records brass first heard Howlin' Wolf sing the line "When the fish scent fills the air, they'll be snuff juice everywhere" in "Wang Dang Doodle."

Robert Bunter: Yeah, there are a lot of great musical moments in history to be celebrated. If someone invents a time machine, you’ll be the first person I consult when I enter the destination coordinates. But there’s another thing we have to discuss: the infamous extended outro of “take 37.” On this rare outtake, after the familiar “Something” ends, we hear the Beatles continue playing. A strange, downbeat piano figure is repeated (played by John), while the others join in the dirge, slowly building in intensity. Eagle-eared listeners will note that the riff they fall into would be partially appropriated by Lennon on the tune “Remember” from the crucial “primal” album. In his “The Unreleased Beatles” writeup, excellent author Richie Unteberger speculates that this might be the sound of the Beatles playing a funeral requiem for their own doomed career. I love how he prefaces this flight of fancy with “I may be reading too much into it, but …” You’re not reading too much into it, Mr. Unteberger. The Beatles are no longer four human men, they are an archetypal force of the universal mythos. Their story belongs to us, and there is no such thing as “reading too much into it” or “preposterous speculations about the meaning of each detail of the songs” or “making up a bunch of ridiculous mental imagery of your fantasies about what the recording sessions were like.” In fact, Mr. Unteberger, if you’d like to contribute to this blog, we’d be honored to hear your thoughts on the “Mother Should Know” mono mix and the imaginary heavy machinery that Lennon was operating on “Ticket To Ride.”

Richard Furstein: Good save. I was hoping we'd get around to the "Remember" tag. There is too much to consider in this song. We've already touched on the songwriting maturation, divine love inspiration, and majestic solo angles. We could probably write a book on the James Taylor connection (Taylor already delivered "Something In The Way" to Apple Records), the incredible possibilities of Paul's melodic bass playing, and the beauteous union of all four Beatles (and Billy Preston) on their swan song album. And, gosh, we haven't even discussed how Frank Sinatra called "Something" "the greatest love song ever written" (he may be right!) but then attributed the song to Lennon/McCartney. That guy was always getting things wrong though. He also beat up women and was chummy with the mob. Hey, come to think of it, I'm surprised he wasn't better buds with John Lennon!

Robert Bunter: You know, that Sinatra thing was a big deal to Paul McCartney. I just saw this YouTube the other day of an interview where he explains how all the Beatles were equal forces, and that’s his evidence for George’s status. “You know, we wrote most of the songs, but George wrote ‘Something’ and that’s the one that Sinatra sang, you know?” or something like that. You can look it up, I think it’s called “Paul discusses John’s death” or something and Paul’s wearing a sweater in it.

Richard Furnstein: Oh, that's helpful, the video of Paul where he retells a Beatles story for the thousandth time while wearing a sweater? I'm sure that'll be easy to find. Any other videos you want to suggest? Maybe a good one of Ringo saying "peace and love" poolside in Los Angeles? 

Christmas Time (Is Here Again)

Richard Furnstein: The secret is O-U-T spells out: this is a top tier Christmas song of all time, up there with "Wonderful Christmastime," "Merry Christmas, Darling," and "Christmas Don't Be Late." Would you expect any less from The Beatles? They practically invented the modern Christmas with their regular winter album releases and continued new product for the holiday season. I sure hope the George Harrison Living In The Material World book is sitting under my tree this year! But yeah, this song includes the best elements of that magical period after Sgt Pepper's and before The White Album. Ringo's drums sound huge, the band seems to be having fun (even George!), the lyrics are a fun mess. I'm feeling the spirit, heavenly angels.

Robert Bunter: Me, too! The Beatles observed Christmas just about every year of their career, with the charming fan club flexidiscs as well as their wonderful Christmas albums, like "A Collection Of Beatle Oldies" and "1962-1966." I wouldn't expect any less from them - after all, Christmas represents an utterly primal, crucial aspect of human existence. Long before Christ, we have annually celebrated rebirth and renewal during the bleakest, coldest part of the year. Naturally, The Beatles, which represent the finest aspects of the spirit of the Universe, aren't going to play it cool like other famous beat groups and let the celebration pass unremarked. Lift up your hearts and give thanks and praise. Yeah yeah yeah!

Richard Furnstein: The Christmas singles are an interesting listen this time of year. John's usually impersonating mentally handicapped Scottish people. Paul genuinely hopes you have a wondrous day and all your wishes for the new year come true. Ringo is usually confused by something in the recording studio, but manages to say something witty. George surprisingly played the droll card. "Christmas Time (Is Here Again)" is the only real song on these discs, but what did you expect? They were busy writing like 35 great songs a year. They didn't have time to actually try to write carols in their downtime. There were drugs to take and islands to buy. Let's all give thanks for these supermen

Robert Bunter: There would be plenty of time for that when they got to the solo years. Let's consider that output. Lennon managed the best hook, I think, on "Happy Xmas (War Is Over)." It's kind of wonderful that he would even make an attempt. Paul's "Wonderful Christmastime" is catchy but it reminds me of stores. Stores like Bamberger's and the long-gone House of Bargains in Springfield. That is not a good association. C-minus. George whipped out his "Ding Dong Ding Dong" in 1974. It's pretty weak, frankly. The Roy Wood-esque arrangement is welcome, but he was capable of much more. Ringo was "wrong-o" when he allowed "I Wanna Be Santa Claus" to reach the marketplace. It's awfully repetitive and nobody's ever going to like it. 

I'm feeling the spirit, heavenly angels.

Richard Furnstein: I think you are wrong. I love those songs, except for Ringo's song because it is garbage. I can probably do without hearing "Happy Xmas" ever again. Melissa Ethridge and her Ovation 12-string may have ruined that song forever. "Wonderful Christmastime" and "Ding Dong" are personal favorites. Sometimes I want to be reminded of going to Amesway with my mother, man. And George had the nerve to write a New Year's song.

Robert Bunter: I'd like to say "Happy Christmas" to all the people, everywhere. I hope you find a copy of the 2009 remastered mono box under your tree, and that it's not counterfeit like THIS GUY'S was.

Richard Furnstein: Happy Christmas, everybody and I hope you're having a lovely time and all the best for the New Year, peace and prosperity and all that. And much love (kissing noises).

Long Tall Sally

Richard Furnstein: One of Paul McCartney's finest throat bleeders, "Long Tall Sally" was the boys' latest search and destroy album closer. Yet it doesn't even close an album, it opens an EP. The boys were wise to showcase all originals on the A Hard Day's Night album, it made the toss off rocker collection Long Tall Sally extended player a thing of pure rock beauty. Like egging the dean's house, prank calling the frigid beauty's house, and making lewd gestures in the malt shop. This is the sound of newly hemmed school pants cracking under the teenage pressure. Paul is out of his mind on this. Heck, they are all out of their minds on this. Listen to that solo, Mr. Voltero. There won't be an economics mid term today, we're too busy fornicating in our minds.

Robert Bunter: I didn’t realize until I read Tim White’s excellent “Tell Me Why” that “Long Tall Sally” and “Tutti Frutti” are filled with secret slang signifiers from the gay 1950s underground. That’s amazing! Little Richard is really overdue for a reevaluation. Sure, he’s probably in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and he’s always name-dropped when you list the original pioneers, but I’d submit he deserves to be ranked on the same level with revolutionary, transformational figures like Bowie, Dylan and Bolan. The staid, conservative parents of the ‘50s were frightened enough by the spectacle of their crew-cut, bobby-socked offspring writhing and jumping while a black man screamed and kicked over the piano stool, but they would have keeled over on the spot if they knew what he was really on about. It’s like Frankie Goes To Hollywood frontman Holly Johnson said when asked about the controversy surrounding the “Relax” video: “The kids didn’t know anything about all that, they just think it’s a party.” I doubt The Beatles were 100% hip to the full implications, either, but I submit that they wouldn’t have cared, if they were. Paul turns in the first immortal vocal performance of his career, while the “boys” bash and crash gleefully in the background. Exciting!  

Paul's here to deliver the Cliff's Notes to Lil Rick. Leave your wig and high heeled boots at home, sir. Prince ripped you off, you say? Fascinating. If you don't mind, I'm going to get back to listening to London Town.

Richard Furnstein: My favorite thing about Little Richard is Paul McCartney. He made it so we never had to listen to Richard's primal (yet admittedly crucial) rock ploppers about illicit skiffle shack rendezvous in the heart of a dank bayou. No sir, Paul's here to deliver the Cliff's Notes to Lil Rick. Leave your wig and high heeled boots at home, sir. Prince ripped you off, you say? Fascinating. If you don't mind, I'm going to get back to listening to London Town. Little Richard is just a weirdo that would appear on kids shows with frightening makeup, yelling and sweating at an inappropriate volume. Gimme Sir McCartney anyday.

Robert Bunter: You know, I want to respond indignantly and insist that you show some respect for one of rock’s founding fathers, but, let’s be honest. I never listen to Little Richard. I don’t really want to. When I’m in the mood for that sort of thing, I’ll put on Esquerita. I don’t even know if Little Richard still walks among the living. Please check that out and let me know. Also: London Town is great! A truly underrated album with some lovely moods and emotions. The shimmering, effervescent beauty of “I’m Carrying,” the murky rock of “I’ve Had Enough,” the bleary European portraiture of “Café On The Left Bank” and “London Town” – I would definitely rather listen to this than some old Little Richard sides. Anyway, “Long Tall Sally” is a great track. I don’t have very much more to say. Let’s talk more about London Town.

Richard Furnstein: London Town is often discussed as suffering in the wake of punk rock music. Well, I'm sorry, Legs McNeil. While you were off pogo-ing and gobbing your wobbly toothed disease at some trust fund lunkheads, Paul was off exploring textures and harmonies with his great love and great friend. I hate to tell you, but Paul already gave you his punk in numbers like "Long Tall Sally." Now it was time to enjoy the Scottish countryside and have children. We all have to grow up eventually. Never one to settle, Paul would later tip his golden cap to the new wave with "Spin It On" from Back To The Egg. But you never listened, did you, Legs?

 Robert Bunter: You, Richard Furnstein, have again nailed it. It’s that magic! 

Golden Slumbers

Richard Furnstein: Paul is a tugboat captain on a sea of oozing strings. A friendly anamorphic frog from a forgotten Disney moving steering us through the heavy shadows of a painted jungle. It's sleepy time on Abbey Road. Paul ushers out the creepers and shaking perverts from John's section. Yet, while Paul promises a lullaby, he never quite delivers. Paul offers his promise to the sleepy children, but then we either get Ringo bang crashing his well loved calf skins or the surging "Carry That Weight." It's then we realize that Paul already sang us the lullaby and the band is about to break up. Melodies come rushing back. The future is beautiful.

Robert Bunter: Sure, everything is beautiful when you’re asleep. Lack of awareness is the only respite from the harsh realities (John Lennon) that surround us. Go to sleep, Paul (he’s singing to himself). Being awake is too painful. “Once there was a way to get back homeward.” Well, James, that’s in the past. Nobody’s going home to the dank stage of the Cavern where you discovered what it means to be truly alive… nor to the screaming crowds and black-and-white overcoat years of Beatlemania … nor to the sunny psychedelic vistas of the “Paperback Writer” video shoot … nor to the joyful “Hey Bulldog” overdub sessions … There’s no way home anymore. For the man who believed most faithfully in the beautiful dream the Beatles represented, the cold, brittle sunshine of 1969’s reality was intolerable. Paul was the only one who never lost faith or quit. When the others bickered and frayed and spaced out, he was always trying to corral the boys into another wonderful project or set up another ramshackle tour on a magic, colorful bus. Now, with the dream falling apart, he attempts a desperate lullaby in the vain hopes of recapturing the departed glory of the past. Paul’s contributions to the long medley of Abbey Road’s second side are a heartbreaking, elegiac swan song for the group’s entire career, and it’s all just so beautiful and sad it make me have to cry.

Lack of awareness is the only respite from the harsh realities (John Lennon) that surround us. Go to sleep, Paul (he’s singing to himself). Being awake is too painful.

Richard Furnstein: There are a lot of tears to go around, especially on a day like today. But listen, I think Paul was looking forward to the trip home. "Golden Slumbers" is a companion piece to "Two of Us." Where "Two of Us" was a nostalgic trip back to the youthful promise of skiffle and finger pies, "Golden Slumbers" is a resigned whisper from a man facing his thirties. It's time to hang up the nappies and tuck in the rugrats. See ya in the papers, John. Stop by when the All Starr Band is making the rounds, Ringo. Good one, George. We're men now.

Robert Bunter: Looking forward to the trip home? Don’t you see, Rich? THERE IS NO WAY HOME. Once there was a way, but no more. I’d like you to cue up this track on your copy of the new 2009 stereo re-master of Abbey Road and listen to dear Paul’s voice on the words “smiles awake” at :43. That, my friend, is not the usual wonderful Paul McCartney intensity voice (“Long Tall Sally,” “Hey Jude” or “Oh, Darling!”) I would submit that that is an utterly primal, crucial expression of deep pain; possibly the most genuine vocal moment that Mr. hide-your-inner-pain-behind-a-wall-of-showbiz-schmaltz-and-good-guy-charm McCartney ever committed to wax. Your vision of a resigned acknowledgement of the solo future is bewitching, and maybe that’s even part of what’s going on here. But I think that vocal moment belies such pat explanations. Oh, wait, what’s that? You don’t own a copy of the 2009 Abbey Road stereo re-master? I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I was dealing with somebody who doesn’t care about having all the Beatles’ albums. You’ll just have to forgive me.

Richard Furnstein: I'm completely and utterly leveled. 

Robert Bunter: I’m sorry man. I didn’t mean that. I’m just really emotional today.