Good Night

Richard Furnstein: Who is that friendly man in the clouds? He has the saddest eyes but the sweetest voice. The backdrop is painted, all soft tones and twisting branches. A frog jumps into a lake with a silent squelch. Look it's a doe! She just winked at us! What a wonderful world this is. I barely remember the terrifying abyss of "Revolution 9" now. I'm afloat on a makeshift raft and Ringo is telling me to ease off to sleep. The sun keeps creeping through the branches. I can feel the warm rays creep into the corners of my closed eyes. There's some quiet splashing happening near my feet. Do tadpoles leap? You'll get your wish soon enough, Ringo!

Robert Bunter: That’s it, Ritchie. Happiness is a warm bed. Just drift off into the land of clouds and pedestrian string arrangements. A chorus of buttery-smooth professional singers have been hired at a moderate expense, fresh from recording a radio advert for Gloanburg’s Noteworthy Crisps (“Now available in plain or brown flavor choices!”); they’re singing to you. Close your eyes and get swept away. Don’t look too closely at the dewy fawn or you might find the truth in its eyes; pay no attention to the improbable curves of the branches, which seem to suggest a non-random malevolent pattern. The universe is unfolding within a great and unknowable plan; everything has been arranged for your benefit. This pleasant fancy world might seem artificial, but it’s nothing to get hung about. Let the day’s cares drift silently away as your extremities slowly succumb to insensate numbness. Nothing is real. The gentle boatman will ferry you across the unknown waters of Lethe, the stream of Oblivion. Your blood is getting cold. You should have listened to the urgent warnings of “Glass Onion” and “Savoy Truffle” and “I’m So Tired,” but it’s too late for that now. Sweet dreams, Ritchie. You’ve just been tricked into dying by The Beatles.  

Sweet dreams. You've just been tricked into dying by The Beatles.

Richard Furnstein: Fair enough. We've been through a lot together, The Beatles. Thank you for making a bunch of great records, including at least 9 excellent solo recordings. I loved your movies and your officially licensed beach towels and John's books. Thanks for encouraging me to get into Indian food and Harry Nilsson. I guess it's time that the sun in my face turns out its light.

Wait, psych your mind. There's a lot of living left to do. I assume they'll release the Esher demos on 180 gram vinyl eventually. And what about "Carnival of Light"? Will that finally be released at some point? Will Dhani ever release a killer solo album? What about the Beatlemaniacal '12 convention? I hear Hugh McKracken is going to sign this year. No thanks sweet reaper Ringo, I ain't ready for that great milking barn in the sky yet. There's too much left to do and see here.


Robert Bunter: Ha, you passed the test. It turns out it was one of those Willie Wonka/King Solomon deals. The listener who ultimately embraced life was the true mother of the chocolate baby all along, because she wouldn’t “let it be” cut in half. Don’t you see, Ritchie? There was never any “magic ticket.” The magic was inside you, all along. It was you the whole time! The scales have dropped from your eyes. Smile and wave goodbye to the fading phosphorimage of the death deer and the large-nosed boatman. The White Album is over and you’re back to the real world. What’s next? 1969 and the Yellow Submarine soundtrack LP! Lots of comforting bright colors and joyful singalongs; no more creepy, saccharine George Martin string arrangements which are evocative of untimely death (note to self: avoid listening to side two of Yellow Submarine soundtrack LP).

Richard Furnstein: Wait, so we're not going to write up "Sea of Monsters" in a future installment? I have some heavy theories on that one.

I've Got A Feeling

 Richard Furnstein: Here's an interesting case. I can't quite figure out where I stand on this one. I know it's one of the better songs from the Get Back project, and one of the few songwriting collaborations from the period. I just can't shake the feeling that The Beatles are a million times better than this song. It just seems like something that came together quickly for the boys. It's built around a pretty pedestrian riff, kind of a wishy-washy A to D trance. It's saved (to my ears) by Paul's hairy man routine (later perfected on the Wild Life LP) and John pushing my childhood ears with his mention of wet dreams (predating his masturbation reference in "Give Peace A Chance"). Then it's all over and I don't know how to feel. Why am I so grouchy about this one? Robert, help me out.

Robert Bunter: I'll be goddamned if I know, man. This is the sound of The Beatles inventing beautiful '70s rock. Even in their death throes, they were pushing ahead and pointing us all toward a glorious future. Listen to those guitars howl and yowl; listen to Paul grunt and groan and holler; listen to Ringo's surprisingly dope beats ... present-day rap artists could sample that and have a hit, I'm telling you. Great bass, of course. And Lennon digs deep and flows beautifully. Then there's that unbelievable turnaround at 2:33. This and "Dig A Pony" are the high points of Let It Be (honorable mention for "Two Of Us"), and you can quote me. "I've Got A Feeling" is ragged and wistful, like a bunch of construction workers driving home from a Sunday overtime shift during a beautiful late-August sunset. "Hey, Hog Man, put in one of those goddamn tapes in the glove box. Whaddya got in here ... 'Beatles' tape, yeah. Rewind it back to the start of side two, that's a good one." Then he lights up a joint and they decide to stop in Gloanburg's Tavern for a couple of goddamn beers. That's what this song is all about, Richard.

Richard Furnstein: The dance of the common man. The grunts and thrusts that define our life stuff. It's all here. I get it now. And, you are right. Paul is setting up future Badfinger pantswets as well as his own gold lined mines of Wings. Let It Be was intended as a return to roots concert, and this is one of the more mobile songs on a stiff and artificial "new phase recording." Oh, and I did like the "hate to miss the train" bit, considering that they sequenced "One After 909" after this one (I contend that "One After 909" is the true high point of this album). It was a clever little connection, but I imagine Glyn Johns wasn't even thinking about this.

The dance of the common man. The grunts and thrusts that define our life stuff. It's all here. I get it now.

Robert Bunter: This song has a warm glow, even when it gets frenetic. The no-frills production complements it perfectly. You can hear how simple it was to write, and that's the beauty. Paul sat there mellowly cross-picking an A chord and sang the first thought that popped into his head; John enjoying the blissful second hour after a fix, free-associating over a similar chord pattern (who could forget this terrifying footage?)

Then, they joined the pieces together, just like "A Day In The Life" without the pretensions toward Great Art. Just a couple of lads playing their guitars. They sing what they feel. Paul has found the woman he needs and it's giving him a feeling he can't hide ... wise, creepy Lennon takes the long view, gently sympathizing with everybody who had a hard year and a wet dream. He skirts at the edges of not making sense, as he was so often wont to do, but somehow the emotional message is clearly audible: bemused resignation, weary acceptance, stupefied opiate rapture. I hate to keep referencing John's heroin use - cut the man some slack, he's 30 years dead - but I think it really had a lot to do with the mood of tunes from this period like "I've Got A Feeling," "Don't Let Me Down," "Sun King," "Because," "Look At Me," and a host of others.

Richard Furnstein: I think it's certainly fair to bring up. He was a straight parted zombie at this time. Something that always bugs me about this one is George. You get the sense he's drifting even further away than John. He just hangs back in his huge black haired coat, playing a Telecaster or something. The only person he can look in the eye is poor Mal Evans. It's a sad scene. Can you imagine that I saw a band play "I've Got A Feeling" as a tribute to George on the night of his death? You'd think you could rut out "Roll Over Beethoven," this song is George's sadness. He's absent mindedly picking out an A chord while thinking of eating toffees with Eric Clapton or watering his garden. R.I.P., Dark Horse. You deserved better.

Robert Bunter: I'm surprised you were even able to pull it together to go out on that awful, awful night. I remember I was just trying to hold back the bitter tears, listening to a bootleg tape of Gone Troppo outtakes. Then I heard the terrible news that George Harrison had died.

And Your Bird Can Sing

Robert Bunter: Oh yeah! Now we're talking! Whooo-WHEE. SHAKE IT! This is truly the peak moment of The Beatles. Right after the last chord stopped ringing in the control room after the final mixdown playback, the inexorable, surging wave of improvement and electrifying energy blasts that was The Beatles' Amazing Career finally broke and started to roll back. The lads still had a few good innings left to play, and plenty of tricks were still up their sleeves, but they would be played on a slightly lower field. You only get one chance in life to knock it so far out of the park that the goddamn baseball achieves escape velocity and heads right up into space orbit, into the center of the smiling sun, and this was when the Beatles took that chance. God was there and He caught that "ball" with practiced ease and the slightest hint of a smile at the corner of His mouth. He nodded and thought to Himself, "That'll do, Johnny. That'll do fine."

Richard Furnstein: Good almighty, put on the mono version right now. Paul's bass is like a locomotive, tearing through boring British homes. He's exposing the pipes, you see Uncle Corky eating his crisps with tea. It's all over. Hey mankind, your dream was boring and inadequate and John and Paul wrote a new script and it rules so get in line or die. This is the future, man.

Robert Bunter: Beatles are the best band. Revolver is the best record. "And Your Bird Can Sing" is the best song. The blog is over. From here on in, it's all downhill and writeups about the Marvelettes covers on side nine of the Beatles At The Beeb bootleg box. Do I really have to dissect this wondrous thing? OK - the band is firing on all cylinders. The guitars are blasting out electric harmony parts while Ringo flogs the topside of the Ludwig ThunderTubs. Paul's bass is a locomotive, as you correctly noted. George's solo recontextualizes the universe of critical possibilities into new and compulsive color-shards. John and Paul sing harmonies that just make you want to die. And John's lyric uses the full power of his linguistic inventiveness and psychedelic flights of fancy. On paper, it's gibberish, but when you hear it sung (turn it up, man, turn it up!), the meaning(s?) is (are?) crystal clear. He's being accusatory, smug, self-assured, enigmatic, yet the whole thing is undeniably joyous. Get with the program.

Richard Furnstein: You are correct, my oldest friend. I don't tell you often enough, but I love you. To me, "Bird Can Sing" is one of The Beatles' under analyzed "reflections of rich dudes" songs. It's an elite group that includes gems like "Can't Buy Me Love," "Baby You're A Rich Man," "All You Need Is Love," and most of George's reflective material. The Beatles knew they were the hottest poop in the universe and were rich to boot. They slowly start to realize that there is more out there than cash, sleeping with Joan Baez, and wearing really cool clothes. There was love out there and peace and understand and curry. John seems to be singing to his fellow rich men who have it all, including a "bird that can sing." Hello, Marianne Faithfull. Come right in, Linda Eastman. We've been expecting you, Yoko Ono. Yes, the adolescent minds in The Beatles are simultaneously trying to expand (cue the sitars) while staying true to their schoolboy purpose (cue Chuck Berry lick). Girls? Shit, they can join the band. Get in the booth, honey. What can possibly go wrong? It's such an innocent idea that foreshadows the increasing rift as Yoko insisted on sitting next to John when he was in the toilet and Linda's father tried to get a slice of The Beatles' management pie.

Open a window, it smells like childhood pies.

Sure, your bird can sing, boys, but maybe let it squawk in silence. Yet, here we have The Beatles at their prime touting the virtues of money, culture, free love, and luxury automobiles. And it's beautiful. Open a window, it smells like childhood pies.

Robert Bunter: Hmmm ... I never really considered your girls-joining-the-band angle, although there's enough ambiguity here for many interpretations. I always heard the lyric as a Dylanesque put-down of a poor little rich girl who thinks she's Miss Sand but doesn't really know where it's at, like "Queen Jane Approximately" for example. But, you know the old trick of lyric analysis: you just turn it around. "Sure, Dylan was writing a series of withering insults about the fools that he saw everywhere he looked. But, really, on a deeper level, wasn't he really writing about ... HIMSELF?!" Viewed from this angle, I can get behind your "reflections of a rich dude" angle. Lennon's prize possessions (deluxe Vox organ stand, mahogany bookcase, colorful Rolls-Royce, rare art collection, novelty gag gifts) are really weighing him down. "You may be awoken / I'll be round," actually the voice of Yoko, singing to and through John from the future? It's not outside the realm of possibility.

Richard Furnstein: Exactly. Who will be awoken? And when? And how? Cue sitars. It's an exciting prospect: John Lennon, on the edge of "Strawberry Fields" and "A Day In The Life," considering the effects of his mind on the world (and possibly himself, consider the upcoming acid madness of Syd Barrett). It's the brash and dramatic dealings of an insecure genius, and we're still trying to catch up.

The resulting track is perhaps the band's most perfect recording. And this time I think I'm right.

Robert Bunter: You're not going to get any argument from me about that one. Now we're just waiting for the other shoe to drop. I'll give you a hint: it's old and brown.

Norwegian Wood (This Bird Has Flown)

Robert Bunter: Hoo boy. Rubber Soul just got really sophisticated. We're talking about mature attitudes, adult problems, exotic instruments, evocative scale patterns. We're talking about the changing dynamics of male-female relationships in the early blush of pre-feminist role confusion. Forget about "I'm Happy Just To Dance With You," teen-bopper - John is not going to be happy until the two of you have made adult love, and probably not even then. He's just going to ponder your frustrated encounter and write a beautiful song about it. Then he's going to burn down your stupid apartment. That's what "So / I lit a fire" is about. He later revealed that in an interview.

Richard Furnstein: That's right. The Boys are all grown up. They held your hand, but only when they were luring you away from the bar to have adult sexual encounters in your cheaply furnished apartment (that's what "Norwegian Wood" is, think Ikea and dimming halogen lamps). You're a liberated chick right (or "Bird," if you want us to walk you through this entire process)? Cool, then adult sex is just what the doctor ordered. Cuddling ain't on the menu, I'd rather sleep in your bathtub than curl up in your princess bed. No offense, I'm just a complicated rock star.

Robert Bunter: Complicated. That's exactly the feeling. "I've got a lot on me mind, dear. I've been experimenting with mind-expanding drugs, writing songs with Paul McCartney and buying a house. Did I mention I have a wife and child? There's a lot for me to deal with right now, and your coy flirtations and manipulative games are not helping." Much speculation has circulated that "Norwegian Wood" was written about John's affair with journalist Maureen Cleave - HERE she is flirting with Bob Dylan. That must have been some crazy evening. Soft light, a frisky Beaujolais paired with smoked kippers, French cigarettes from a brass pocket case, Donovan's latest on the hi-fi. Maureen whispers something, John mumbles and adjusts his sunglasses...

Richard Furnstein: I feel like I'm watching the intimate details of mating rituals on some late night PBS special on the honey badger. It's simultaneously tender, primal, practical, and savage. "Norwegian Wood" seems to discuss the foibles of the western male--all unfocused sexual energy and swagger--colliding with the promise of sexual independence and release promised to all young women in the rock and roll wars. Your downfall is either drink or women. You either sleep in the bath because you are too drunk to know any better or you fear intimacy that advances past the frilly things. It's a N.O.W. badge come to life, fitting awkwardly in the realities of late nights, surging hormones, fame lust, and sexual manipulation.

You're a liberated chick, right? Cool, then adult sex is just what the doctor ordered.

One thing I was never clear on: should this song make you feel sad for the characters? Is it just a numb slice-o-life commentary? Where do you stand, Bunter? Is it more "Good Morning" than "She's Leaving Home"?

Robert Bunter: Wow, great question. You've cut right to the heart of the matter. I think we're dealing with John's marijuana-induced emotional detachment. He is not sure how to regard the woman, the situation or himself. So, he presents us with this gauzy, impressionistic series of vague images and leaves out the conclusions and emotions. There is a sort of sadness here, but it's evoked by the absence of emotion rather than its presence. None of McCartney's deftly-betugged heartstrings for this old boy (who I like to call Johnny "Moondog" Lennon). He's just going to serve you up a raw plate of painful reality and let you draw your own conclusions. The road to "A Day In The Life," the ultimate masterpiece of aching detachment, starts here.

Richard Furnstein: Let's put a bow on this one, because this is another gift to the faithful readers. I would like to recognize the use of sitar on the track (hard to believe that George was able to manage good taste in his early days on that yawning, cranky beast of an instrument). George picked up the sitar after seeing musicians cradling the stringed monsters on the set of Help! George must have incredible luck pulling new sensations from movie sets. His first wife and renowned Best Looking Beatles Wife Patti Boyd was a fringe benefit from the shooting of A Hard Day's Night. Any idea if he pulled anything interesting in the shooting of Let It Be?

Robert Bunter: An old brown shoe. Hahahahahahahahahaha!

Happiness Is A Warm Gun

Richard Furnstein: I'm completely stymied. How do you even approach this incredible pile of genius? I just thought it over in the shower and considered a few angles: 1) Yoko as savior of John's creative genius; 2) John's late period ability to unravel time signatures while still preserving his gift for melody; 3) the well trod "history of rock" angle (progressive to heavy to anthemic to doo wop, all in under three minutes); 4) the mutual heroin/heroine fixation; 5) John's frequently creepy lyrical themes. It's all there, and it's all great. It's hard to comprehend this song happening. Please tell me about The Beatles. How is this possible?

Robert Bunter: Yeah, every one of those ideas deserves its own lengthy exegesis. If the Beatles were a house, this song would be a weird, musty closet in a forgotten corner, filled with strange implements, unnameable smells and implications unthinkable in sane, daylight hours. Lennon could do creepy better than anyone, and White Album Lennoncreep beats all other terrifying Lennon eras (I'm including Plastic Ono Band and "Beautiful Boy," too.) We've just finished George's melancholy dirge full of gently weeping guitars and smug, judgmental evaluations of our spiritual development. It's almost the end of side one. Time for some light relief! Paul, have you written any songs about your dog? Oh, wait, it looks like John is here and he'd like to introduce us to a world of perverts, junkies, lizards, toilets, nuns and firearms. At least there will be some nice music! Oh, wait: section one is weird jazz, section two is tense, agitated rock and section three is like a '50s rock revival, except the Brylcreemed greaser of 1958 is now a decade older and he's addicted to drugs. His leather jacket is crusty with mold and blood and his eyes aren't right. Oh well, there's always side two!

It looks like John is here and he'd like to introduce us to a world of perverts, junkies, lizards, toilets, nuns and firearms.

Richard Furnstein: Jesus, I don't even want to think about that aging greaser, full of methamphetamine and regret, fidgeting in the corner of the malt shop while leering at school girls. It's like a lost innocence pizza with everything on it. Still, I bet even that guy (I'm naming him Leo in my mind) would be terrified of this song. He starts off lulled into Lennon's hypnotic guitar (like a harpsichord played backwards in a gentle breeze) and then the bottom falls out and we're welcomed to the mean streets. You know where you are, baby? Needless to say, you are in a jungle and are going to die, but you'd better have a shiny pair of hobnail boots to get you through the endless obstacles in your path. What are hobnail boots, you ask? You child, you aren't ready for this world. This is the world hidden in your dad's pornography stash, between the stereo adverts, the swollen tired nipples, and the musty (de)scent of mildew. It's all hair and blood and phlegm. Watch your step.

Robert Bunter: That's a lot for us all to think about. Lennon was very proud of this track, and I can't say I blame him. One gets the impression that this song wasn't difficult for him to write, despite the jarring key, tempo and time signature changes. It has an effortless feeling, like John just dropped a tattered fishing net into the swampy underbogs of his unconscious mind and swept up a few of the slimy, unearthly creatures which were swimming around down there the whole time, even when he was just singing things like "Twist And Shout." With heavy eyelids and a quiet, opiated moan, he slowly drags the net out of the water. The startled, noxious aquacreatures snap and blink and click and hiss in the unfamiliar sunlight and oxygen while Lennon surveys the day's catch with grim satisfaction. If you touch them, they'll sting your finger before they shrivel. That's what it was like for John to write "Happiness Is A Warm Gun."

Richard Furnstein: Not far from the truth, surely. But can you imagine what it was like for Ringo when John wrote "Happiness Is A Warm Gun"? He was probably driving to the studio in his new Bentley, listening to acetates of his "Don't Pass Me By" working tapes. "Hold tight, Richard," he'd tell himself. "You are almost there. Hit them over the head with this when they least expect it." Then he arrives at Abbey Road and realizes that John's all strung out and has been babbling in the corner for hours. Paul's working out "Junk" on the grand piano. "Maybe I won't release this one..." Paul thinks. George is reading about elephants or something. Then John is like "Let's try that one about the gun," and poor Ringo has to switch time signatures to meet the crazy drug-fueled whims of his increasingly distant yet undeniably brilliant band leader. I'm here to tell you: I'm sure those acetates didn't sound as good on the trip home. Ringo was just getting used to the idea of roots rock (The Beatles had The Band fever for some reason) and thought his first song would fit nicely in the new mode. Meanwhile, John took the concept of roots rock and ran it through a blender with a few tablets, his childhood nightmares, and his crippling love and anxiety for a weirdo Japanese artist.

Robert Bunter: You've got a real point there, Rich. Let's just summarize: John went fishing in the darkest part of his brain and dredged up a 1950's greaser in a world of moldy pornography, which created drumming difficulties for ace sticksman Ringo Starkey. Just a typical Tuesday in White Album land, the scariest place The Beatles ever invented. Can you take me back where I came from? Turn left at Greenland.

Richard Furnstein: They were originally going to call The White Album "A Doll's House." But it's full of the dolls that are missing limbs, have rust tears coming out of their dead porcelain eyes, and spiders crawling over their stunned remains. "Warm Gun" is one of the scariest rooms in that house.

I've Just Seen A Face

Robert Bunter: I've got to tell you, I'm coming up short on this one. I just can't build up a good head of steam for this C&W-flavored Rubber Soul gem. Sure, it's nice, but it's not on the level of a "You Won't See Me" or "I'm Looking Through You." It's totally charming and loveable, like any Paul McCartney song, but it just doesn't have the sauce that makes me want to wax bombastic about every little detail.

Richard Furnstein: That statement just proves that you are completely unqualified to seriously discuss the greatest band of all time. I know you grew up with the bastardized Capitol LPs, so I can almost forgive the Rubber Soul mistake. I had to make do with the inferior Capitol pressing of Rubber Soul until my local record importer was able to secure the beautiful EMI vinyl. Oh the follies of youth!

Still, move over, Simon, get lost, Garfunkel. There's a new man in town and I like to call him Paul The Magnificent. He'll be doing both of your jobs for now on. He's also going to make Little Richard, Brian Wilson, and Phil and Don Everly redundant. What's that you say? Is he some kind of super robot creation that can match and better these musical legends? Good question, but NO. He's just a man with a sweet cherry voice that manufactures melodies like it was a natural biological function. I know you are sad now, but you'll be pleasantly surprised when you hear his genius music.

Robert Bunter: Yeah, get lost, everyone else. The world has finally been blessed with a singer-songwriter of considerable gifts. Oh man. Look, I'll take McCartney over Little Richard or Don Everly any day, but you're proving my point. "I've Just Seen A Face" is totally groovy, but it's a throwaway. Paul could write songs like that in his sleep. Now, I'll take Paul's sleep-composed throwaways any day, but while McCartney was snoozing his way through "I've Just Seen A Face," an emotionally-damaged, half-deaf Californian had just written "In The Back Of My Mind," "Please Let Me Wonder" and "Kiss Me Baby." What's my point here? I don't know. I'll still take McCartney over Brian Wilson any day, but I'm not going to pretend like "I've Just Seen A Face" is better than "Guess I'm Dumb."

Richard Furnstein: Hey, I don't want to get into any sensitive areas here. I know your affection for surf rock. I will say that "Seen A Face" (as I like to call it) is one of the top tracks on my Get Your Bass On tapes. I take popular songs that lack bass guitar and add my unique low end skills all over the basic tracks. It's mainly as oddities for the bass boy tape trader community. "A Face" is probably the only "full band" Beatles song that lacks a bass track, which is surprising because a little bit of McCartney Rickenbacker honey would go a long way on this staple. I'm working up my Get Your Bass On track for "When Doves Cry" right now. It's right raunchy.

He's just a man with a sweet cherry voice that manufactures melodies like it was a natural biological function.

Robert Bunter: No bass? Hmmm. I never noticed that. I should be ashamed of myself. I assume it was to contribute to the "singalong around the bonfire while wearing a baja" atmosphere, which is also fostered by the little extraneous vocal noises that happen at the beginning of the solo (at 1:02). I would be intrigued to listen to the results of your bass tapes. What a thought! "I've Just Seen A Face" with full production. It probably sounds like this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nomAH31GWd0

Richard Furnstein: Sort of, but it's a Roland TB-303, so its more of a Cameo feel. You should hear the cosmic funk I spew all over "Love Her Madly."

Yesterday

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

I'm Down

Robert Bunter: Oh, yeah, sure. Nothing much here. Paul just decided they needed an old-fashioned throat-shredder for their live set once he got sick of singing "Long Tall Sally." Strictly routine; another day at the office. Let's just take an elementary roll and rock chord structure, add some primitive lyrics. What's that John? You'd enjoy playing the organ? Yawn. Sure, no problem. Maybe we can add some vocal harmonies to the mixdown from the stereo dub track. That's it. We're all done here. Wipe off the mixing board and call the driver to take us over to the Ad Lib for a scotch and coke. WE'VE JUST RECORDED THE SINGLE MOST ELECTRIFYING SONG OF OUR CAREER.

Richard Furnstein: Business as usual at the belt-'em-out factory. Set the Paul robot to "L. Richard Screamer" and make sure the china cabinet doesn't tip over, because the waves are getting dicey. I've gone on and on about Help! as a confusing period of mild transition for the boys (witness half steps of advancement like "Yes It Is" and "You've Got To Hide Your Love Away") but this period also saw The Beatles retreat to the comforts of primal rock. "I'm Down" sits along "Leave My Kitten Alone" and "Dizzy Miss Lizzy" as throwbacks to an easier time, where the suits were ready made and the drugs just made you frantic and ready to fornicate.

Business as usual at the belt-'em-out factory.

Robert Bunter: Listen to that organ at 1:28. I guess nobody had thought of running it directly into the board ... it's clearly recorded from a microphone, which is obvious because you can hear the cheap plastic keys clicking as John plays his absurd solo. This is the second time the Beatles used a cheap organ for comic effect. Can you guess the other one? I'll tell you: it was "Mr. Moonlight." That organ cracks me up! Hahaha! Of course, we all know that during the Shea Stadium concert, John felt so ridiculous playing this solo, he started hopping around and playing with his elbows. If you notice, the others have very divergent reactions to this memory. Paul talks about how great it is that John kept a sense of humor during the nerve-wracking moments of their career; then Ringo comes on and says that he felt it was evidence of John having a nervous breakdown. Who was correct? George. He just stood there and cracked up.

Richard Furnstein: That gig was the shake it out, it's the end of the road moment for our boys. Brian Epstein was slowly losing control over his boytoy project and touring became more complicated (cue lackluster live version of "Nowhere Man"). I think The Beatles were scared of Imelda Marcos or maybe Marv Thorneberry from the Mets. Who knows? I only know that they were in Shea Stadium, drugged up and killing it about twenty years before Darryl Strawberry, Dwight Gooden, and Len Dykstra would make it cool again. Pioneers in the world of music AND baseball. Is there anything that they didn't do? The answer is: are you even bothering to ask me that dumb question?

Robert Bunter: What about those bongos? Hoo-whee! Shake it! Let's turn up the volume and play it again!

Day Tripper

Richard Furnstein: George Martin: "You boys write a new hit song yet?" John Lennon: "We wrote this riff that's really killer and it goes on forever." George Martin: "Well, let's wrap that up and get it on a single, it's been like three months since your last hit." Paul McCartney: "Cool. We'll make it about drugs or whatever but not really about drugs because we don't want it to get banned like my future solo hit 'Hi Hi HI.'" George Martin: "You guys sure like drugs!" George Harrison: "Oh hey, are you guys talking about drugs? They're great!"

They were looking down their nose at all the 9-to-5-ers shuffling through their daily routines, who didn't have fur coats and stylish Moroccan carpeting and Aston-Martins and grand pianos.

Robert Bunter: That's only a slight exaggeration of the "Day Tripper" demo tracking sessions! The boys were feeling arrogant and smug as they surveyed the square, conformist world around them through dilated pupils and the windows of their mansions and limos. Paul later explained that the lyric was actually a put-down of "weekend hippies." It must have made them feel even more smug to realize that nobody who heard this thing would know that's what they were singing about. Most people just assumed they were painting another unflattering picture of a woman, like the ones in "Girl" and "You Won't See Me" and "Drive My Car" and "I'm Looking Through You" and "Norwegian Wood." People didn't even know they were saying "prick teaser." How are they supposed to get their heads around a weird made-up insult like "Day Tripper"? They were looking down their nose at all the 9-to-5-ers shuffling through their daily routines, who didn't have fur coats and stylish Moroccan carpeting and Aston-Martins and grand pianos. But do you know what? It was those "Day Trippers" clocking in at the office day after day who paid for all those carpets. Think about that, Beatles, before you decide to write another goddamn insulting single like "Day Tripper." We can't all sit around on cushions and blow our minds all day. Somebody's got to mind the store.

Richard Furnstein: And mind the store they did, to the tune of number one singles for this and its infinitely superior flip ("We Can Work It Out"). "Day Tripper" is all cool detachment and casual wordplay, but "Work It Out" has greater aspirations towards explaining the human condition behind stoned and square minds. It is nice that "Day Tripper" has that RIFF, so that normal halfbrains can dig on it and think this song is about a trip to the beach or Six Flags or something. "Pack a sandwich, honey." "Oh, did you remember those Coke cans so that we can get half priced admission?" "Of course I did."

Robert Bunter: On purely music grounds, this is pretty innovative. Yeah, it's a repetitive riff, but just when you think you're hearing another 12 blues, the chorus comes in and takes us to a whole new place. Then you've got that great buildup on the bridge and those classic Beatle "AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH" backups. Paul's doing some nice things on the bass (especially those throbbing notes on the fadeout), and did I mention Ringo's insistent tom-toms and funky tambo? I've got to say: this is a killer single from start to finish. Lots to love here.

Richard Furnstein: Plus, it's like "who is singing lead?" And then you realize that it doesn't matter because they are both singing lead and they are the best singers and this may be a lesser single/melody/cultural concept from the (in transition) supermen, but you drink it all down and can't believe that this isn't ambrosia sex milk stuff. Seven stars out of five.

Baby's In Black

Richard Furnstein: A lumbering mess of a song. John Lennon dips his brush into the "color as emotional metaphor" palette once again, and the audience knows he is struggling to convey human emotions. To be fair, he was an emotional beast that probably found relief in the simple old rock color cliches (black is death, blue is sadness, red is sex or danger). His psychedelic period would find him approximating colors to help shade his disintegrating mind (tangerine trees, marmalade skies, et al). In "Baby's In Black," John stays as close as he can to the primary colors and emotions and still can't manage a coherent storyline. It's a love song to a grieving girl, but Lennon eschews empathy for the widow (?) and instead moans about wanting to hold her hand or some mess. C'mon, John. You can do better than this. We all know that you are tired and you guys are closing in on being a second-rate Monkees on Beatles For Sale, but you can turn this around. Here, smoke this. It might help.

Robert Bunter: I think you’re giving this early gem short shrift. You’re hearing a “lumbering mess,” I’m hearing the first evidence of a new emotional maturity from a guy who I like to call John Lennon. Dealing with the subject of death, even in such an oblique way, is pretty bold for a 1964 pop song. This was the third sad song in a row on Beatles For Sale; you can imagine the kids’ reaction! They ran to Gloanburg’s Shilling and Pence on the first day it came out, waiting for more yeah-yeah’s from the four floptops. Suddenly, they are confronted with the four shellshocked, gloomy faces on the cover. Look at Ringo there! He’s staring at you like, “Hey, what the hell do you want from me?!” Then they give it a spin and right off the bat we get what I like to call “the three really sad songs that open up Beatles For Sale.” Sure, the mood will lighten up with “Rock And Roll Music,” but we will never regain our original innocence. By the time those first three songs had finished, we had all learned a thing or two about darkness … a thing or two about life.

Richard Furnstein: I have no problem with heaviness or emotional maturity, Robert. I just want some more depth. "Baby's In Black" is just the scent of death in a room, but you can't find the source. Is there a mouse rotting in the walls? Is the Chinese restaurant dumpster festering in the summer heat? Where is that smell coming from? Lennon smells it, but can't pinpoint who dealt it. Harrison's lead guitar suggests the confusion (his attempts at tension are the true highlight of this recording, check the warped misgivings at 1:37). Paul's game and keep the proceedings chipper as usual. Ringo is locked into an uncomfortable rhythm and sounds relieved when the song finally runs out of petrol after two minutes. Sure, we learn something about life, it usually has to end in death.

John stays as close as he can to the primary colors and emotions and still can't manage a coherent storyline.

Robert Bunter: You want more depth. Well, that’s just fine. Why don’t you listen to terrifying Plastic Ono Band outtakes and stare at the butcher cover in a candlelit basement? It’s just as well that Lennon and the lads didn’t see fit to confront “the source of the scent of death” on this spirited, Everly Brothers-influenced waltz from 1964. Do you know what I think? I think you’re just looking for something to criticize. You’ve got a point about Harrison’s guitar solo, though. It sounds like one of those shifting psychedelic liquid blob movies that they used to show on the screen behind bands at pop concerts and be-ins. He takes his very indecisiveness and makes it into a crucial musical element, all bloopy and out-of-focus.

Richard Furnstein: No, you're right. I'm just looking for something to criticize. This song is so weird and uneven because it has to be. John's getting his fangs out and he will later go straight into the tomb for "Come Together" and "Cold Turkey." The entire band is stretching here. It's not necessarily pretty, but if I want pretty I'll put on my mono pressing of The Family Way soundtrack.

Robert Bunter: Yeah, or Thrillington! Hahahahahahahaha!

I Need You

Robert Bunter: I'd make a serious case for this one as the best of the early George tracks. My man Harrison didn't really develop his own voice until about Revolver, so the yardstick by which I measure the early stuff is, how close does this come to the glory of a Lennon-McCartney song? "I Need You" goes a long way in that direction. It's got a beautiful mood (two lovers having a deep relationship discussion in the mellow sunset glow at the end of a melancholy Sunday in London) that is sustained nicely throughout the song. Of course, it wouldn't be an early Harrisong without some really clumsy lyrics. "[You] said you had a thing or two to tell me / How was I to know you would upset me?" anyone? He uses two words that don't rhyme ("tell" and "upset"), but he figures it's okay because he just repeats the word "me" in both lines. And do you know what? It is okay. It's completely fine. I'm not going to sit here and pick nits when I could just bask in the wonderfulness that is George Harrison's 1965 track I Need You. Richard?

Richard Furnstein: Harrison the prize fighter heads back in the ring with "I Need You." He's still in the welterweight division, but is no longer suffering humiliating losses such as "I'm Happy Just To Dance With You" and "You Know What To Do." This track from Help! suggests that Harison is slowly working his way up the ranks; delights such as "If I Needed Someone" and "Love You To" are right around the corner. "I Need You" is still a bit unformed and ugly (the uneven volume pedal touches that disrupted the contemporary recording "Yes It Is" and the cowbell and moan bridge that attempts to cover up George's inability to significantly vary the melodic range), but fits well along with the awkward pre-Rubber Soul efforts from John and Paul.

Meanwhile, John, high on marijuana, gives it the old pump-and-
strum on his Guild Jumbo and moans nicely on the background harmonies.

Robert Bunter: Let's take a glance at the musical arrangement. Ringo keeps it simple and steady, with a little added percussion on the bridge (cowbell? claves?) for emphasis. Paul is admirably restrained on the bass, sticking to the roots and fifths. In years to come, George would complain about Paul's busy basslines on tracks like Something, but of course we know that he was just being bitchy because McCartney didn't want him playing stupid call-and-response guitar lines after every stanza of Hey Jude, which would have been really obnoxious and I have to say Paul was right in that case. But here, Paul gives him nothing to complain about. "I'll just keep it simple, OK, George? In fact, I can hardly be bothered to contribute to this thing at all, because I treat you as a second-rate talent and belittle your contributions. It's nice that you have written a song called I Need You based on that stupid D-chord thing where you wiggle your pinky around on the E-string which sounds like something I might have tossed off in 1963. You'll have to excuse me, I need to go get ready to record "Yesterday," "I'm Down," and "I've Just Seen A Face" in one single session. Yes, George, I'm telling the truth." That really did happen. Meanwhile, John, high on marijuana, gives it the old pump-and-strum on his Guild Jumbo and moans nicely on the background harmonies. And in the center of the stage is George Harrison, singing earnestly and doing that volume-swell trick with the guitar knob. Sure, it's not as revolutionary as Lennon inventing feedback or McCartney bringing in a string quartet, but what do you expect from the least talented of the three main Beatles?

Richard Furnstein: Self righteous moaning? Musically tedious drones? Uneven teeth? Curry stained fingertips?

Just kidding, Dark Horse 4EVA. R.I.P., George. We will never forget you.

Because

Robert Bunter: One thing I really like about this song, besides the fact that it's like sweet audio butter that melts deliciously in my brainpan, is that it represents the Beatles just being Beatles (circa 1969) the very best they could. They weren't parodying the music of another era ("Oh, Darling!," "Maxwell's Silver Hammer") or writing about themselves ("You Never Give Me Your Money," "I Want You (She's So Heavy)". It's just some vintage cosmic Lennon wordplay, sweetened with some vintage beautiful McCartney/Harrison harmonies, buoyed by some vintage harpsichords, topped with some vintage primal Moog synthesizer tones.

Richard Furnstein: That's a great point. "Because" is The Beatles at their most sophisticated. It's a gorgeous and classical song with very modern touches (the aforementioned Moog) and an unusual progressive feel. The story goes that Yoko was playing Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata" on the piano (don't be so shocked; she went to Sarah Lawrence and came from money). John heard the C#m lurch and requested that she play the chord sequence backwards. It's not just a good story, it's an effective metaphor for the unusual sound of this song. The chords go backwards--and yet point to the future. Like a time traveler crashing his jalopy of a vessel into a Victorian garden. It's the twee "throw back the clock" promise of Sgt. Pepper's realized without the garish psychedelic dressing.

Robert Bunter: One thing this song is missing: Ringo! I can imagine him adding a sweet spoken passage, a la Good Night. It would be during the synthesizer solo, and he would say this: "Who knows why the world is round? Wot if a tree fell in the woods and no one was there to listen? Wot if they gave a war and nobody came? Things are more like they are now than they’ve ever been before. It's one of the many mysteries of the cosmic universe" or something like that, in his inimitable Liverpool accent.

That’s a great point. Wait: no, it isn’t.

Richard Furnstein: The message of "Because" is clear: Love is timeless: it's a finely tailored suit embracing raw emotion. An orphaned working class British child can have his world changed by an avant Japanese lady who cares more about screams and liberal arts fartery than Chuck Berry riffery.

Robert Bunter: That’s a great point. Wait: no, it isn’t. I’m not sure what one thing has to do with the other. But still – this is a great example of Lennon’s beautiful, dreamy side. His wit and cleverness are ever-present, yet baby-simple. He’s gazing at the slowly revolving reference frames of our ever-shifting natural world (spinning globe, blue skies, high winds) through the dazed, narcotized eyes of a sleepy, smiling infant who’s been fed one of those morphine-laced teething formulas that they used to give to babies in 1911 before they realized how harmful that was.

Richard Furnstein: Speaking of harmful: how about the complete shift in the musical understanding of this song following the Anthology alternate mix? Anthology provided a gorgeous acapella version of this song, which highlighted the angelic voices of our snarl-toothed heroes while forsaking the minor key tension and innovative arrangements that truly elevated the recording. Two vocal only versions emerged after the Anthology version: an Elliot Smith cover in The Royal Tenenbaums and the opening birds in the reverb tank version that opened the underrated Love stage production soundtrack. Hey, I love the voices of John, George, and Paul more than anyone else, but let's not forget that a weird and beautiful song lives underneath those suspended vocals.

Robert Bunter: I have nothing to add. Another triumph!

Only A Northern Song: Part 3-They Just Play It Like That

Robert Bunter: This song was originally recorded during the anything-goes experimental era of the Sgt. Pepper sessions, hence the unorthodox recording technique: George recorded seven tracks on two separate four-track machines, leaving one track free for a metronome click so they could synchronize them. What a brilliant idea! "I guess you could say we invented eight-track recording!" The problem became apparent when it was time to mix the thing. Nobody could get both of the machines to start playback at the exact same time. They'd have two people hit the play button, but it would never come out exactly right. I can just imagine those sessions! Paul was probably going on and on about how this would revolutionize the industry, and how he might later take credit for it. John was imagining the ability to overdub even more formless shrieking onto tracks like "What's The New Mary Jane." Ringo was eating beans and "crisps" while George was meditating in the corner but actually he was thinking about how he would like to sleep with Ringo's wife Maureen, which he finally wound up doing in the 1970s. But after listening to Geoff Emerick and George Martin try and fail for the umpteenth time to start the machines simultaneously, they began to get disgusted. They were not very patient when it came to things like that. They probably called for their driver to come pick them up and take them to the Bag 'O Nails club where they sat with Keith Moon and Mama Cass and talked about hallucinations.

Richard Furnstein: It's odd that they chose this half-written crapfest to test their technological limitations. They managed the supreme piece of recording art that is "Strawberry Fields Forever" with a four track, but thought that they needed twice as much recording capabilities for George's moaning waif of a song. I'm surprised they didn't insist on a 48 track mixing board when they started work on "Don't Pass Me By." The Beatles are the greatest thing that humans have ever accomplished, but they certainly didn't understand the concept of "you can't polish a turd." The Fab Four (along with Chief Turd Polisher George Martin and Admiral Turd Buffer Geoff Emerick) would routinely try to make something from nothing. Sometimes it was pure bliss (cue "You Know My Name Look Up The Number") and other times you had to sit through endless vomit like "All Together Now" or "Only A Northern Song." The psychedelic years saw the biggest offenders of this trend, as a few toots of a horn or a backwards calliope were all that were needed to legitimize the lamest of acid-fueled half-ideas.

Robert Bunter: Everybody finally gave up and let this song onto the Yellow Submarine 1969 soundtrack album in a hideous "fake stereo" mix (highs on one channel, lows on the other), but it's surprising they didn't just release it in the horrible out-of-synch version they must have heard in the studio when they didn't hit the buttons at the same time. That would have been in keeping with the violent assault which this song represents.

The Fab Four (along with Chief Turd Polisher George Martin and Admiral Turd Buffer Geoff Emerick) would routinely try to make something from nothing.

Richard Furnstein: "Only A Northern Song" was originally slated to appear between "Fixing A Hole" and "Being For The Benefit Of Mr Kite" on Sgt. Pepper's. Can you imagine if this actually happened? I don't need to imagine, I pressed a small run of Sgt. Pepper's original tracklists for my personal use in 1983. And take it from me, it's an absolute mess. You are barely coming down from the supremely incredible "Fixing A Hole" (remember: gentle fade) and the death chords of "Only A Northern Song" come blaring. Then you have to deal with John's fey psychedelia in "Mr. Kite," all the while wondering why you didn't just lift the needle during the perfect "Hole" fade. You are sitting there, completely not under the influence of acid, listening to some overblown handlebar mustache psyche-ooze. Oh, wise guy, think you'll just make an MP3 playlist in your iTunes? Great idea, but you don't even have the relief of an album side change to give you a break from the dreaded black hole of "Northern Song"->"Mr. Kite"->"Within You." It's a John babble sandwich with two thick overlong pieces of moldy George Harrison fumbling songwriter bread. Choke it down, fool. That's what you get for messing with perfection.

Only A Northern Song: Part 2-The Chords Are Going Wrong

Robert Bunter: The musical accompaniment of "Only A Northern Song" illustrates and enhances the lyric's description of a slightly-askew song performed by an absent band. Paul's bassline bobs and struts deftly as always, but he doesn't always change chords when the rest of the song does. The piccolo trumpets which soared so delicately above "Penny Lane" are stuttering and squealing discordantly. The tape loops that transformed "Tomorrow Never Knows" into a psychedelic mind trip are here, but they are deployed in the service of pure confusion rather than novelty and shock. The goofy voices of "Yellow Submarine" are in the background, but they're moaning strangely and mumbling "Heavy, heavy." The organ introduces the song with a churchy, strange sort of major sixth chord which has nothing to do with the tonality of the rest of the song, before funkily resolving down to a full major chord which seems to fix the listener with an evil, bared-teeth grin and bloodshot, demented horse-eyes. The guitars ... what guitars? There's no guitars.

Richard Furnstein: A chill sets in the room. A funereal organ pushes out of every speaker, turning the desert landscape orange and then purple. The cacti are bleeding just as the sand trickles and moves towards some hidden drain. And all this before the drums kick in. It's a blast towards outer space. Constellations flicker and blur into a black sky. The singer is a headless aura, a suggestion of self. It doesn't really matter what form he takes, his voice only makes the night sky darker and more impossible to navigate. It's an unpleasant feeling, my blood runs light up here. DON'T ASK ME HOW I KNOW THAT.

Robert Bunter: I'm not comfortable with the way this is going, Richard.

The actual Beatles, who you thought were your beloved friends and advisers, are four dark men you will never meet and who regard you with barely-concealed contempt.

Richard Furnstein: This place isn't meant to make you comfortable. You are barely emerging from the clouds of a few potent segments and your childhood home is full of activity, mirth and movement. You advance from your room, where the striped wall paper seemed to be finding new vanishing points. The hallway appears vacant, but a bustling horn band creeps from underneath your sister's bedroom door. It's Sunday on BBC 1, but the hallway sends the galloping trumpet into a simultaneous reverse and forward motion. The Salvation Army band feeds like a music box; magenta twirls cough out as the tuba player is caught in the spokes. Mother's room is at the end of the hall; and there is talking come from the room. That man's voice isn't your father's; and his booming voice suggests a substantial mustache. Retreat. Run down the stairs: five to the first flight, turn left, four more, left again, the final four. You bound onto the wooden floor, just as you did as a 9 year old. Yet, you are much older, this is your childhood home and it is full of spirits and men and sounds that you have never heard or expected. You'd run out the front door and follow the grid to the woods, but the front door isn't there.

Robert Bunter: Here's something I don't like: George double-tracks his voice in unison through the entire song, except for the word "brown" on the line "if my hair is brown." Why the emphasis on that word? It's equally disquieting when he says "You're CORRECT," with what sounds like sadistic emphasis. You were sitting there in stuporous stoned rapture, watching the four Beatles chop and thump their way through another psychedelic dreamworld, when suddenly the George-figure looks directly at you and says, "If you think the harmony / is a little dark and out-of-key / you're CORRECT" and at the same time he takes off his face-plate, revealing the hideous snapping mechanical works that were underneath there the whole time and you sort of suspected it but kept nervously pushing that thought to the back of your mind because of the terrifying implications. The wonderful men who sang about "She Loves You" and "Good Day Sunshine" and "Getting Better" were actually disembodied electrical impulses etched violently into black polyvinyl choloride and decoded by your pitifully inadequate home audio equipment. The actual Beatles, who you thought were your beloved friends and advisers, are four dark men you will never meet and who regard you with barely-concealed contempt.

Only A Northern Song: Part 1-I Told You There's No One There

Richard Furnstein: Originally recorded for Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, "Only A Northern Song" manages to be at once an effortless bit of psychedelic filler (as the title cooly states) and a harrowing soundscape of the changing vistas of pop music. George Harrison, irked that his songwriting efforts were published under Lennon and McCartney's Northern Songs Ltd. umbrella, tossed off "Only A Northern Song" as just that--contractual filler in which the harmonies, lyrics, and chords were secondary to the contractual and financial advancement of the Beatles' songwriting craft.

Robert Bunter: This is one of the most terrifying songs in the catalog. The startling fact that it ended up on the Yellow Submarine soundtrack LP, presumably aimed at young children, qualifies as pure abuse. The little kiddies had so much fun in the theater, watching Old Fred and the charming Beatle lads defend Pepperland from the Blue Meanies. Then they talked their mum and pap into purchasing a copy of the cartoon-adorned LP at Gloanburg's Shilling and Pence. They took it home and were ready to enjoy the goofy-voiced charms of "Yellow Submarine" and "All Together Now." Suddenly, a nightmare organ opens a creaky door into a harrowing, discordant world where the thick voice of creepy Harrison starts addressing them DIRECTLY, confronting the unformed child's mind with the stark reality of what they're doing: listening to a horrible Beatles song. Bleak trumpets and strange echoing little toy noises assault the ear as the grammatically-fractured lyrics torture the mind. Stop! I'm not ready for this. I'm an eight-year-old child! I'm going to have nightmares about this experience. I didn't know music could talk at you.

Richard Furnstein: It's generally fun jabberwocky (well, as much fun as can be had at this dreadful pace) defined by wordplay and dismissive accounts of what makes a song. Well, that is until George removes the furniture from the room as the sound effects begin to envelop the languid backing track as the lyrics "And I told you is no one there" suggests circuitry and patterns have overtaken the songwriting process. Music lacking emotion, the ultimate trip. Syd Barrett would pursue similar themes in his contemporary recording "Bike" (from The Pink Floyd's Piper At The Gates Of Dawn). Barrett describes a host of physical objects (the titular bike, a mouse, a cloak, gingerbread men) that are physically manifestations of his lifestyle (and ultimately his love). The creature comforts are dramatically removed in the final verse where Barrett describes a "room of musical tunes" that create sounds like "clockwork." Again, the mechanical and artificial is the final stage of psychedelia. The bevy of sound effects and tape manipulations become a process; even Ringo's drums are now a slave to a recording process. The rock is dead and the machines are taking over. It's only a song that you request? Let's dial up the machinery, love!

Music lacking emotion, the ultimate trip.

Robert Bunter: This was George's "Glass Onion." Again, both songs directly address the reality of the relationship between a Beatles' record and its listener, in a tone that is markedly sardonic and confrontational. In these lyrics, John and George, minds clouded by boutique-pedigree acid, behold their fans. In three or four short years, they've watched them morph from hysterical 13-year-old girls to pimply, stoned teenagers with dead eyes and dumb thoughts. There's no way to communicate with these mental cripples. Let's just spit on them. After you play these tracks, you have to wipe the Beatlespit off your face. Just sit there and think about how dumb you are. We hate you. The idea that someone might have listened to this song while taking cheap, adulterated street acid is enough to make your imagination hurt. The organ intro alone is making me want to pull out one of my eyes so I can turn it around and stare into the other one. My mind is dead.

Richard Furnstein: "Signed Curtain" by Matching Mole is the atomic fallout of the takeover of the machines. Robert Wyatt's aching voice delivers a beautiful melody over rote piano chords. "This is the first verse" the lyrics tell us. Logically, they later tell us the emergence of the bridge, key changes, and "another part of the song." "Signed Curtain" takes the concept of emotionally resigned songwriting to its naked conclusion. The humans have long since left the room. The machinery has rusted or shut down. The only remaining element is raw awareness of self and the futile nature of artistic expression. It's a harrowing journey, and one that starts with some throwaway track from the Yellow Submarine album of filler and George Martin orchestration. Don't let Paul or Ringo see this, they may just claim that they invented meta songwriting. You know, the same way they invented MTV, house music, recording guitar feedback, Ozzy Osbourne, and casual sex.

Hello Goodbye

Robert Bunter: James Paul McCartney's gifts as a composer and performer are vibrantly displayed here. An effortless sense of joy just leaps out of the speakers and makes you want to smile. There are those who criticise the relatively lightweight insignifigance of the lyrics (paired with "I Am The Walrus" on a 1967 single, it's one of the most obvious examples of the contrasting songwriting personae of John and Paul), but I say they're missing the point. This is a song for children, senior citizens, people from other countries and hippies, as well as normal adults. Simple words, simple thoughts and a melody that seems like it was already written, just waiting for Paul to pluck it out of the air and give it a fantastic studio arrangement with organs, fiddles and one of those percussion shaker things.

Richard Furnstein: "Hello Goodbye" is perhaps the best example of the complete superiority of Lennon and McCartney as songwriters, the Beatles as performers, and George Martin as a producer. Paul essentially delivers a 1910 Fruitgum Company song (complete with "Simon Says" nursery rhyme lyrics) and a perfect bubblegum melody. The difference here is the little touches. George Harrison is the absolute star of the show here, his backing vocals exemplify the psychedelic backing vocal sound of the time and his guitar touches such as climbing the major scale and a lovely descending figure are absolute gorgeous. "Hello Goodbye" is one of the perfect productions in their catalog and I will go to my deathgrave defending its perfect beauty.

Robert Bunter: Truly, we can all celebrate what Paul was doing here. He's speaking directly to the heart. Spare us your inscrutable riddles and acidhead nightmares, John - we're having a pleasant celebration on Paul's side of the record. Surprisingly, I will make the exact opposite point when we finally get around to examining "I Am The Walrus," one of Lennon's purest artistic triumphs.

It's all candy, they tell us. The colours are there to delight.

Richard Furnstein: Bubblegum music is a beautiful thing, and the Beatles did a lot to add to the art form ("She Loves You" as the shining triumph of the genre). "Hello Goodbye" is an attempt to channel the disposable pop song into a perfect piece of art. Check the promotional clip for "Hello Goodbye," the lads are having great fun (despite the uncertainty that they were facing the death of Brian Epstein and the future psychodrama of the White Album), even playing with their previous moptop image and referencing Elvis Presley's hip shaking. It's all candy, they tell us. Grab every shining nugget in the bowl, children. The colours are there to delight.

Robert Bunter: Paul was the one with the most consciousness of world music. From the Latin flavors of “Step Inside Love” and “Los Paranoias” to the later flirtations with reggae (“C Moon,” “Jet,”) and non-specific exoticism (“Mamunia,” “Kreen Akore,” “Loup (1st Indian On The Moon)”), it was McCartney who was quickest to exploit the groovy sounds and rhythms of faraway cultures. The trick ending on “Hello Goodbye” is a nice example of this tendency. It functions a bit like the gospel explosion at the end of “Ticket To Ride” – the singers and band top everything off by throwing back their heads and shouting with joyful abandon. Better get your passport stamped! Suntanned Paul is ready to greet you with a lei as you disembark from a jet airplane called music. Next stop: Pepperland!

Carry That Weight

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Don't Pass Me By

Robert Bunter: Oh GHOD, do we really have to sit here and listen to this turd? Hands down, the worst song in the Beatles' illustrious catalog. It makes "What's The New Mary Jane" sound like "You Won't See Me" or some shit. Did you read in the Anthology book where Ringo talks about how he wrote this? "The White Album was really great for me ... I wrote my first song! I just know a few chords, so I sat there and played ... a few tokes later, I had the track! It was great doing the recording session with that crazy fiddler!" That's an exact quote. Maybe it didn't occur to him that he would be stinking up one of the Beatles' greatest albums, which I like to call: "The Beatles." It would have been better if he'd just sang one of his goddamn insufferable Carl Perkins covers, like in the good old days. Two thumbs down for the nadir of 1968.

Richard Furnstein: Whoa, back up the truck. I mean, hit the stop brakes, feel the dust kick up around you, take a look in the rearview for safety, quickly reverse down the middle of Areyoushittingme Street. Better yet, look at yourself in the mirror. Is there a gaping, festering hole where a normal human sized brain would be? Because I'm putting this top tier of the 30 song marathon (jog don't run) of The Beatles. It's not just a pity tug, I genuinely believe in the power of this one.

Robert Bunter: Listen, I don't say things like all that stuff I just said lightly. I gave it quite a bit of thought. I suppose your going to make one of your typical arguments by going on about how much you love the vintage analog compression on the crash cymbal. I'm just going to go ahead and list the things this song lacks: charm, wit, musical interest, social commentary and a justification for placement alongside such masterpieces as "Sexy Sadie" and "Mother Nature's Son." C'mon, you're not going to lie and tell me you enjoy listening to this trash. It's me, Richard. C'mon.

Richard Furnstein: I do genuinely enjoy it, and here's why: it's Ringo's coming out party. He was kicking around the basic idea for "Don't Pass Me By" since the days of finely pressed suits. Then it may have found its roots in Ringo's early role as the new boy, the drummer that could be replaced easily. Years of personality (and impressive drumming) seemingly placed him as an equal in the Beatles, but the making of the White Album seemed to disrupt the "all for one" vibe of albums like Revolver and Rubber Soul. Let's be frank: Paul was a better drummer (drool over the perfect drumming on "Dear Prudence"), George was only beginning to address his emotional scarring from years of playing the undercard, and John was increasingly detached from his oldest chums. "Don't Pass Me By" is Ringo clanging his salad fork against the fine china, while telling the table how it will be. We're moving forward together, fellas. This isn't up for discussion. Oh, and I wrote a song. It's making the double album, it would make the single album, and because it's a Starkey Songs original, it'll carry more historical significance than a basketful of "Julias," "Honey Pies," and "Glass Onions." Deal with it.

Ringo's coming out party stinks.

Robert Bunter: Ringo's coming out party stinks. He came out, then he wrote "Octopus' Garden," then the party was over. Now it's time for a bunch of lousy Richard Perry productions, tours with Peter Frampton and poor fashion choices in the Anthology videos. Listen, I love Ringo. He's the greatest, and I'm glad he got a song on the album. The publishing royalties were probably very helpful when he needed to purchase cocaine and brandy in the 1970s. Let me reiterate: I love all the Beatles, especially Ringo Starr. Most of all.

Richard Furnstein: Cool, well, I'm glad we agree on our love of Ringo Starr. The Luckiest Beatle manages some fun little moments on this recording. Yes, the drum sound is enough to carry the flimsiest of songs (and the tune does indeed test the limits), Ringo howls with an appropriate level of anguish in his voice, and the manic fiddle (the mono mix is again essential) is aiming for country but winds up as an unusual C&W, raga, drugged out English genius amalgam). Great fun, and let's give Ringo a hand for the "You were in a car crash/And you lost your hair" line. Have fun with it, Ringo. Everyone is staring at you now, dazzle 'em!

I'm Only Sleeping

Richard Furnstein: Notorious lazy bones John Ono Winston Lennon continues his descent into self important "life-as-songwriting" with "I'm Only Sleeping." Using the template of "Help!," John writes what he knows (self-loathing and drug-induced stupors). It's a trick he would continue through the Sgt. Pepper era, only the promises of Eastern mysticism and Yoko Ono's progressive caterwauling would push Lennon's creative output to adopt the imagination displayed in his early short stories.

We could all learn a thing or two from this overweight, emotionally-stunted drug abuser when it comes to things like how we should stay in bed all day, or how easy it is to ignore your wife and child.

Robert Bunter: Hey, who wants to take a nap? ME! The great John Lennon penned a wonderful ode to sleeping and I find it simply wonderful. I think this is one that everybody can relate to. The chord changes have just a hint of Motown, but the sleepy acoustic strumming and yawning backwards guitars were pure Beatles. This is a true highlight of the "Yesterday And Today" album.

Richard Furnstein: It's pretty neat that George Harrison, he of superior teeth and slightly above normal intelligence, managed to complete define the backwards guitar solo in this early man attempt at studio trickery. Imagine that: "Shall we flip the tape for the solo?" Sure, says George, then he continues to draw a map away from the treasure (pop music perfection) to the startpoint (coordinates that I like to call innovation and inspiration). And he draws the damned map in perfect handwriting. Listen to that guitar solo. Don't forget to hang onto your butts in the process!



Robert Bunter: This is a song that shows the influence of drugs. John is tired because he's spent most of the past five years running around like a lunatic, and also because he's smoking reefers every two seconds. He's just saying: hey, don't wake me up. But in a deeper sense, isn't he also criticising all of us as we scurry through our drab nine-to-five routines? We could all learn a thing or two from this overweight, emotionally-stunted drug abuser when it comes to things like how we should stay in bed all day, or how easy it is to ignore your wife and child. Later, he would write "Rain" which explains how dumb we are for trying not to get wet from the rain. He's just so advanced and we need to start taking the hint.

Richard Furnstein: I got a head start by napping during your verbose and confused interpretation of this pop song. Great job!