You Know the Name--The Music of the Beatles, Pt. 5: Semaphores and Chromatophores

8/6/1965

A trio of certainties:

1. One successful film starring a wildly popular band of young men will beget another.

2. That film will not be up to the quality of the one preceding it..

3. The accompanying album, however, will be better.

Finally, an album that gives the discerning listener a chance to hear the individuals that comprise the whole. For John is not interchangeable with Paul who is in turn not at all synonymous with George. (Insofar as Ringo goes, he has whatever personality they decide to give him for any one song--which is all he gets.) All three were brilliant translators of their own distinguished muse, creative demons with halos that became increasingly incorrigible when faced with greater fame, riches, and expectation. To stave off immolation, the Beatles wielded the shield of introspection.

"Help!"--A plaintive cry from a man who one cliche-ridden night looked hard in the mirror and saw a swirling morass glowering back.

It's a brave soul who'll flick open the blade to carve open their fleshy bulwark, exposing the most vulnerable parts of themselves to an air that may cause it to wither. It's a strong tongue that is able to admit a weakness that no thick-headed will to power-speech can overcome.

The idea of a real man being a man who holds his emotions so close to the vest that they leave an imprint on the skin of his chest is ridiculous and immortal. It greases the gears that power the planet, yet stymies progress simultaneously. Contradiction and turmoil are real, more true-blue than any silly sub-standard of living passed on from fucked generation to fucked generation.

"Help!" is real. Which isn't to say songs about failed or flailing romances are fraudulent. But they're easier to write. Songs like "Help!" take some digging, conjure up unpleasant memories, produce vital fluid. Lennon felt that in all his time as a Beatle (which ultimately was not all that long) he wrote only two "genuine" songs, this and "Strawberry Fields Forever." Second-guessing this is pointless; he wrote the fucking songs. He knows what he's talking about.

The commercially-driven decision to quicken the tempo disappointed John, and indeed it sparks off images of mad-lad hijinks through the narrow streets of London rather than a desultory everyman turned demigod wrestling with pain and pleading for a remedy. Conversely, the contrast in lyric and tune juxtaposes neatly with the idea that contradiction as supreme impetus.

The stereo and mono mixes offer different lead vocal takes, on this and other songs, but nothing too drastic all told--John does sound a bit more assured in mono, and thus less in need of assistance, but trust that he's in dire straits all the same. His mates, being mates, are sympathetic, particularly George with his "broken chords" during the "Won't you please" sections.

"The Night Before"--All Paul. Wall to wall. Posted up like a mailbox.

More mates being stand-up here: over a punchy strut, Paul laments a fairweather love while John and George provide a mellifluous response from across the Salisbury Plains. It's fairly sublime stuff considering that it's just, again, a lamentation of a fickle bird. I quite dig Paul candy-coating the reason he's so friggin' distraught--ridiculously fantastic sex.

"Treat me like you did the night before."

What, when she taught you how to play chess? No. When she manipulated her limbs in a manner akin to an Olympic gymnast? More like. I see you and your filthy rock star ways, you filthy rock star.

"When I think of things we did/It makes me want to cry."

Like your very first checkmate? Never. Like the blowjob that made you see spiracles? Always.

"You've Got to Hide Your Love Away"--Lennon as Dylan again, and this time blatantly so. Feel the prick of the patchy facial hair on a careworn face hidden by that insanely ugly hat will you for the love of Pete Seeger take that off yer friggin' head! Do genius and heat both exit the body via the same route? Hmmm.

The gentle acoustics and near-subliminal percussion are coasted alongside perfectly by John, who almost out-Bobs his new hero. (I still think the Traveling Wilburys existed solely for Jeff Lynne to remake this song over and over, much like he started ELO to plop out endless variations on "I Am the Walrus.") The flutes on this song represent the first instance of outside musicians on a Beatles track, and make fantastic sense to boot.

Considering this song I must consider a greater, graver question. Why must we women be so wicked? Well, we kinda have to. Men won't give us equal footing on political grounds or social grounds...the glass ceiling in the workplace has not been shattered into oblivion just yet...and physically, well, need it be said? Given the host of disadvantages, mind games are the only way we can feel like real players. I don't condone it.

I would hope that men and women worldwide can join together in decrying how much louder the vocals are on the stereo mix of this and most of the songs on Help! Honestly now.

"I Need You"--George's first original on a Beatles album since With the Beatles is a serenade to Patti Boyd. A relationship that would totally end well. Hey, at least there were no tattoos involved. I think.

Sloppy riffing, afterthought vox harmonics. Stereo just accentuates these flaws. When it comes to songs called "I Need You," well, it's just like chocolate--America does it better.

"Another Girl"--Macca for the very first time provides lead axe work, via that nasty solo near the end.

Keys open doors, unless the locks are changed. But what happens when the keys are changed? Beatles in a nutshell.

Country like a breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, biscuits dripping with butter and jam. Clearly, our man has moved on from "The Night Before."

"You're Gonna Lose That Girl"--So is John threatening to steal his mate's bird just to make a point, or out of sincere concern for her well-being? The latter, I'd say, though I'm more than a bit swayed by the 50s style dude-group vibe this song exudes. Shiny suits, bow ties, pompadours, kill 'em with kindness. This song features a tempo shift that's really like a mood shift that is in actuality a pole shift.

Finally: Ringo plus bongos equals, what else? BINGO.

"Ticket to Ride"--So ends the "Help!" soundtrack portion of our program. There's a stormy heaviness bordering on menace here, in the caveman plod 'n' roll of Ringo's drums, in the shimmering-now-shuddering chord work (which guts the fish a bit more in stereo, to its credit).

Song meanings are important to many, not so much to others. Per Macca, the ticket in question is one that will earn you a ride on British Railways. But then Lennon said that it referred to cards carried by Hamburg hookers meant to indicate the waters were clean, so dive right in. I believe in both interpretations. A whore riding the train. Harlot on the rail! So poetic. Anyway, just crank this shit. But if you need me to implore you that, we both got problems.

"Act Naturally"--Dr. Hook and the Medicine Show wanted to get their pitcher on the cover of the Rolling Stone; Buck Owens wanted to make the Grand Ole Opry. Here's to dreams coming true, even if they are piss-poor.

Putting this song on this album is like featuring clams in a documentary about frogs.

Friggin' Ringo.

"It's Only Love"--John said this song featured a "terrible lyric," and frankly that's brutal. Yes the first words are "I get high," and there's never much promise inherent in such a salvo, but it only improves. Praise due. This is a nice song to sit on the porch and drink sweet tea to.

"You Like Me Too Much"--Snoopy could scouse shuffle to this in a French cafe while wearing a scarf, I don't doubt. George makes up for his earlier, plainer sin. Still, not a hair of a hint that this same would someday write and sing "Something."

"Tell Me What You See"--Gentle, watery, bright-eyed beseeching. The solace of a McCartney composition is always the ideal counterpoint/part to the jostle of a Lennon original. Their chalk and cheese relationship is still being misinterpreted by otherwise intelligent fans as we speak.

"I Just Saw A Face"--I love how, title-wise, this song answers the previous one. Paul on both, to boot.

Like "When Doves Cry," this song lacks a bass track. Unlike "When Doves Cry," this song doesn't make me think of a very skinny black man with a John Waters moustache emerging slo-mo from a bathtub. Manic in the way John Denver flew planes.

"Yesterday"--For my money, "Here There and Everywhere" is Macca's most exquisitely rendered love song. I'll obviously elaborate when I get to Revolver, but suffice it to say that particular song is still to my mind radically underrated. This is not to degrade "Yesterday." Three thousand cover versions can be wrong...but they're not.

I understand why "Yesterday" is so universally beloved. So do you. Listen to it. While Paul's chord changes defy the routine, they are decorated with saccharine strings (that are affecting and effective regardless, damn them) and simple words.

Yesterday

All my troubles seemed so far away

Now it looks as though they're here to stay

Oh I believe in yesterday

Basic.

Why'd she have to go

I don't know, she wouldn't say

I said something wrong

Now I long for yesterday

So basic.

That's why we listen to music instead of reading it from paper.

Paul's phrasing on "Yesterday" is simply brilliant. Tunefully disconsolate in the verse, then halting and haunting in the chorus.

This one broke the Beatles beyond the teeny-bopper demographic, for which any fan of theirs should be grateful. Still, it remains too soft for many to swallow, and was famously dissed (along with "Michelle") by a likely-green Dylan for its dime-a-dozen stench. It was also not-famously degraded by a fat NYU student in line for a Sonic Youth concert at Central Park in 2002 for Paul's original lyrics: "Scrambled eggs/Oh my baby how I love your legs." He used this as his main argument that John was the superior songwriter. Unbelievable. And there I was just about to tell him how much I loved his performance in Se7en.

"Dizzy Miss Lizzy"--"Hippie Hippie Shake"? Oh no. It's better. Fathoms so. Mainly 'cause Tom Cruise never douched it up in a movie whilst this played in the background. A nice cap to a fine record, this cover was suggested by manager Brian Epstein to justify his salary. Well done! Beats piss out of "Mr. Moonlight." Tight and loose, neat and frayed, cut and cured. The fuckin' Beatles.

You Know the Name--The Music of the Beatles, Pt. 4: Starts At a Penny, Drops Dead On a Dime

12/4/1964

I won't lie...this was a difficult one to get the victory underpants on for. By and large, Beatles For Sale is buttcheeks. It is unquestionably the cock-staple of the entire catalogue. Just look at the title; always makes me envision a truck driving down the street, getting the funniest looks, four young lads with desultory faces hanging out the open side-long window as some oddly-accented man with plentiful facial hair hangs out the window of the passenger side door whilst banging a tin can against said barrier between him and certain injury, all the while screaming, "BEAAAATLES FOR SALE! GET YOUR BEEAAAATLES FOR SALE! GET 'EM WHILE THEY STILL DON'T STINK!"

The boys look busted as hell on the cover, the inevitable side effect of touring your ass off, shooting movies, banging groupies, giving good media head, and yes yes recording music. All of which aided and abetted the general mediocrity of this album, but none of which deterred their rabid fanbase from placing 750,000 advance orders, at the time a record. The phenomenon could not be stopped. And don't they seem thrilled.

"No Reply"--For a potential cuckold, Lennon never seems very furious here. Even when he claims "I nearly died!" I don't believe him. Phil Collins sounded more distraught when faced with the same scenario in "Misunderstanding."

"I'm a Loser"--Misspelled on original pressings as "Loseer." Which is still far more tolerable than "looser." Of all the spelling errors which raise a phoenix-like homicidal rage inside my gut, that's the screamer.

John as Dylan. "I'm a loser/And I'm not what I appear to be" says it as good as any. "Is it for her or myself that I cry?" shows self-awareness that these early songs generally lacked. Still, Lennon doesn't go many leagues deep into self-loathing; there persists that general vibe of "Yeah, I'm kind of a phony, and I blew true love, but I'm beseeching you in song to not make the same utterly tragic mistake I did. Meaning I remain cool in the bigger scheme. Despite this rather douchetastic straw hat."

(Everyone loses in stereo, as John is just way too loud. Like a blue whale in a goldfish bowl.)

"Baby In Black"--A mournful track inspired by Astrid Kirschherr, a photog friend from the Beatles salad days in Hamburg. Always skipped.

"Rock and Roll Music"--This is more like it. What is it? Rock and roll. One is all it takes for the guys to make Chuck Berry's classic their very own, right down to the willful mispronunciation of "hurricane" and the phantom "and" of the title. This is a song meant to leave throats and butts sore. Save the ice packs and lozenge spray for later.

"I'll Follow the Sun"--Paul, like his partner of a few songs ago, is unappreciated by his paramour. But while John is being underwhelming, Paul is being poetic and philosophical: "Tomorrow may rain, so I'll follow the sun." A lesson for any woman that Maccas do not grown on trees, so show some due appreciation if you are so lucky.

"Mr. Moonlight"--This is the worst song ever on a Beatles album. "Rocky Raccoon" might be the worst original composition, but this is the dubious overall champ of chaff.

It has a lot which suggests, before you hear note one, that it really won't be very bad at all. Originally performed by Dr. Feelgood and the Interns, it was written by a Roy Lee Johnson. What an impeccable middle name! Featuring a Hammond organ? Rich creamery butter, more like!

I don't know exactly what went wrong; the Beatles are the most overly-documented band in history but I've never read an in-depth look at precisely why "Mr. Moonlight" is so rancid. I have a list of the Top Ten Things I Would Rather Have Shoved Into My Arid Womanhood Than Listen To The Beatles Version of Mr. Moonlight, y'all. And I have to specify, because the Hollies did a cover of this around the same time and it was actually okay. The Hollies! The band who made a semi-career out of decimating Bob Dylan songs!

The Hammond section sounds like the theme to any number of movies featured on Mystery Science Theater 3000. Crap ahoy, the signal sounds.

This song is so bad that my dear friend and fellow Beatle freak Patrick didn't even rip it to his ITunes. And he fucking rips everything. Well, there was another Beatles song that he left off too. But you'll have to wait for that reveal.

I don't believe in Beatles no more, mama.

"Kansas City/Hey, Hey, Hey, Hey"--Scratch that; faith restored. Sorry to make you get up, mom! Love you!

Paul ain't Little Richard, and he ain't even John's anomic white boy take on black rock, but this'll do, boy. This'll do. I can almost hear the wistful wave goodbye to their past in these covers. The clean break necessary for growth is closer to realization.

"Eight Days a Week"--Lennon never liked this one, but I bet Lennon never liked tacos, either. Prove me wrong if you can, but I think he would just hate the way the shells would break.

Sublime in its sappy simplicity, so need I tell you who wrote it? And for not thinking too highly of it, that's one hell of an anguished, needful little exclamation leading into the chorus there at 1:29. Favorite part of the song? For me, probably. I look forward to it every time, I can hear it in my head in the seconds leading up, and ah damn, it rattles my chest every time.

First song to ever fade in? Maybe. First song ever brought into the studio unfinished for the fellas to gussy up? Fa sho.

"Words of Love"--Paul idolized Buddy Holly, and I wonder if he was too intimidated to attempt a better song. Pity, 'cause my Beatle sense tells me they would have ripped the hide off of "Peggy Sue."

"Honey Don't"--First on the Honey Don't List is 1. Give Ringo A Song, but aahhhh, you did it anyway! Damn you, English manners. Carl Perkins' proto-Time Warp Tickers Theme is given a lifeless run-through, while I am reduced to tears, knees stuck to the carpet, hands clasped raw begging for CLEAN BREAK CLEAN BREAK CLEAN BREAK.

Second on the Honey Don't List: Try To Make a List Cooler Than Jenn's List Mentioned in the Mr. Moonlight Review.

"Every Little Thing"--Although Paul wrote this song, he let John take over lead vocal duties, a rare occurrence in their maddeningly wonderful universe.

Imagine the Potions class at Hogwarts being taught by Professor McGonagall instead of Snape and you've got the feel of this one. Not as greasy, or sexy, no soul shot through with holes, but much more soothing and liable to turn into a cat and back again. Also, less sibilance.

"I Don't Want to Spoil the Party"--A very personal song for Lennon, the rather trite scenario of a lonely dude stood up by his girlfriend at some party where hopefully everyone's having too much fun to notice anyway much less use it against him in the future is actually a gentle cover for deeper feelings of alienation and hurt. The music doesn't sound near as worn-down as the words over it, and how sad that he's actually going to seek her out. Also sad is rhyming "sad" and "glad." It doesn't make me mad, but there are greater combinations to be had.

The prominent memory this song stirs up in me involves my dad. In the 90s Roseanne Cash did a cover of "I Don't Want to Spoil the Party," and how she goes from "Seven Year Ache" to that is a ponder for sure. The only reason I even knew about Cash's cover was because my dad played country radio constantly. Me and my dad didn't have many conversations real and true (understood to mean exchanges of more than five sentences per person in one face to face setting) because neither of us really knew how to talk to the other.

It was a bold me that spoke up in the kitchen that day.

"That's a Beatles song. I mean originally."

After a few anxious seconds silence, my dad growled out--in that inimitable cornbread 'n' gravel voice--"Yeah, well, this here's the good version."

"What You're Doing"--Some beautifully intricate picking and a freakin' drum intro distinguishes this Macca cruiser.

"Everybody's Trying To Be My Baby"--More Carl Perkins. This is it. This is the break. I heard the snap. It's like Dave Dravecky's arm in stereo, except it sounds better in mono. Boom goes the gyromite, and soon, zoom go the Beatles.

Demarcation points are rarely so breathtaking. The first phase of the Beatles ends here, and the second, much more intensely creative phase, looms.

You Know the Name--The Music of the Beatles, Pt. 3: Give the Drummer Some

7/10/1964

The Beatles! On the big screen! Hear the sirens and screeches, delight in the custard-like caterwauling of carnally confused cornfeds! The clarion call of strings that sends the world atwirl and the steady pulse that holds it in place is all around! It's Beatle-goddamn-mania, and your parents are real peeved! Women and girls are going fruitbat psycho over the juju carefully concocted by these huggable rebels and their gruff handlers! But don't be sad, Michael; it doesn't mean girls will never like you--they just won't ever like you the way you are right now. Follow the devil-might-deign example of these laugh-a-minute moptops and you'll be beating back the finger pie with two whole hands!

I'm so glad I'm not reviewing the movie. What kind of witch with words, what sort of sorceress of sentences would I have to be to construct paragraph after paragraph expressing one sentiment and keep it interesting? The movie is just hysterically great. How do I get that across without causing a readers eyeballs to force themselves free of their sockets so's they can roll onward to freedom in a blessed land where they shall never be subjected to my writing ever again?
Lucky for you and your balls, I can do the album a bit more justice.

"A Hard Day's Night"--Sure-fire cure for the sequencing headache blues. Put all the songs actually in the film on side one, and all the ones written for the movie yet absent from it on side two.

A Hard Day's Night was the first Beatles LP filled with naught but their own compositions and not shockingly, it is my favorite of their pre-Revolver material. 9 of the 13 tracks were 100% Lennon creations (his songs outnumber Paul's in the catalogue on the strength of this album) and despite my avowed Macca fangirl status, he would have been hard-pressed to match his mate track for track.

I said 100%. Oh, okay. Ringo helped a bit too, with a delightful malapropism that gave title to song, album and film. Quirky bastard done blessed a trilogy of greatness.

What we have here, ladies and gentlemen, is the perfect song to kick off an album, a film, a day, a night, an affair, a mission, a quest, a new beginning, the world...it's so unimpeachably good. Yes it's basic boy-loves-needs-wants-girl and that's hackneyed, but only in the same way that breathing can be considered "hackneyed." It's love, pretty much, and it hasn't been improved upon.

"When I'm hooooome"--see, that's cool like a good friend. But the subtle baby cowbell just under it? Love, straight up, I tell you.

The opening chord that sparks from George's Rickenbacker twelver has been dissected. Also bisected. And is responsible for the creation of numerous sects worldwide. Less effort and relative brain power has gone into the amelioration of several national economies than the anatomization of this single strum. (Fadd9, by the by. Name a dog after it, why not.)

The stereo version is a few seconds longer, which to some folk is like discovering extra pages in the Koran. Ya know. Incidentally, this was the first Beatles album recorded on four-track tape, ostensibly allowing for "good" stereo mixes. Interesting idea. I do have a soft spot in my head for the minimal stereo sound here, though, it's like shimmying while sitting 'cause you're trying to hold back the urge to pee.

"I Should Have Known Better"--"Just a song," the author was heard to remark. "It doesn't mean a damn thing."

1964 was the year the boys met the Bob, as in Dylan, who turned these quite alive men on to weed and better lyrics, both independently and dependently of each other, I would imagine. John says this is their first song to reek of Zim's influence, but shit if I can hear it.

"If I Fell"--It's a love-a-line with Lennon over here. Probably the most Macca-esque tune he ever wrote. You know how those go: first it creepy-crawls into your ears, tickles the hairs, slithers bewitchingly to the brain, then it's game over. The dual lead vox is not at all fair and is actually killing me, Smalls.

Oddly--and unnecessarily, she was seen to underline--the stereo version double tracks John's opening vocals.

"I'm Happy Just To Dance With You"--George got ornery, so John threw him this bone of a bone. Proof that despite the evident giant strides, it was tough to abandon the simple formula that scored 'em more pussy than a Chinese stereotype.

"And I Love Her"--Song five! Oh hi, Paul! My Wiseauian surprise and delight over meeting you here cannot be contained. While "And if you saw my love/You'd love her too" is not precisely "Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds," it's that sort of plainspokenness that helped make a phenomenon.

"Tell Me Why"--So much iiiiiiiiiii. Ay yi yi. Also, that double-tracked vocal crap again in stereo.

"Can't Buy Me Love"--Unusual for the Beatles to paint so blue, but it works. Tight like frog ass, with Ringo's beat the ready steady rocketship to rocket hips. It was George Martin's stroke of genius to start off with the chorus. Totally blowing that guy a kiss right now.

(If you are reading this right now, I'm going to assume that you are familiar with the "Paul is Dead" controversy. Maybe you're not a student of the shit like some people, but you have a comfortable familiarity with the basic story. It's just that popular. What many missed was the message sent by the Beatles on the cover to the "Can't Buy Me Love" single. Of the band members, Ringo is the only one looking at the camera. What does this tell us? That Richard Starkey, ladies and gentlemen, is going to live forever. Gear!)

"Any Time At All"--John Lennon always hated his singing voice. That's crazy; that's not too far from the mental process of an anorexic. Think about it; firm belief despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary. But yeah, he would beg George Martin to smother his voice in effects much like one applies gravy to biscuits.

"I'll Cry Instead"--John giving us glimpses of the inner turmoil that would never truly leave him. "A chip on my shoulder that's bigger than my feet."

"Things We Said Today"--Macca, you magnanimous bus stop.

Your sort may or may not enjoy this sort of thing. My sort does, most certainly.

Written whilst on a vacation in the Bahamas with then-girlfriend Jane Asher, this ode to "future nostalgia" is no less affecting in retrospect because the relationship didn't last. Love doesn't work that way. You can isolate those fantastic moments from the unfortunate ones and neither becomes less than what they ultimately are. Rose-colored nothin'.

This is perfect, head to soles, the greatest song the Beatles ever recorded. The verses, the chorus.  (Essentially a master course in how to double-track vocals.)

The Beatles did middle eights like a motherfucker. The one here is so out of place it's right where it needs to be.

The stereo isolation is unbearable. It's like keeping a parent from their child, and vice versa.

"When I Get Home"--Great intro, great chorus. "My baby," hey don't sneeze, one of the greatest songs ever is just imploring someone to "be my little baby." And don't cock your head at "Gonna love her till the cows come home," 'cause this is the Beatles, so you know it's only the bestest cows. Like Irish Dexters or something.

"You Can't Do That"--What, satisfactorily follow up "Things We Said Today"? True, true. But hey hey, the Monkees made a whole albums worth of material off the first few seconds along, so. Peppy but not peppery.

"I'll Be Back"--Gee, that's kinda anticlimactic. Oh well. I'll be back too. See you then.

You Know the Name--The Music of the Beatles, Pt. 2: Disembaudio

11/22/1963

With The Beatles was recorded over three months in 1963. Slackers. Wankers. Slankers.

Just like the debut, it stretches fourteen songs long, with a near-even split of originals to covers: 8/6, to be precise. Although still nowhere effing near genius, With The Beatles is a striking step forward in that direction.

All in one calendar year!

"It Won't Be Long"--Genuine was their love for rhythm and blues and soul, but the Beatles were more impressive at covering the songs of those genres than at filtering the sound through their funnel. Country music was another matter, as With The Beatles features a few tracks clearly influenced by the sound of the American South that stand out for all the right reasons. (But what happens when they decide to redo a country favorite? Oh, just throw it to Ringo, see it won't stick, but put it on the album anyway. You know the one.)

Sprung primarily from the mind of John W. Lennon, "It Won't Be Long" is a comfortable intro song, a hot bowl of alphabet soup that contains not just words but wordplay ("It won't be long/Till I belong.") as well as some fail-safe "yeah"s, engaging scaling riffs and dramatic chords to take us out.

"All I've Got to Do"--White Liverpudlian attempts Motown. Culture shock the real story here, as apparently English youths just didn't chat up birds via the phone in those days.

"All My Loving"--A spirited slice of Macca. Razor-keen and good again melody over John's triplet tornado.

Paul receives an indecent amount of crap for being a virtuoso of the love song, an easy trade to ply, but among the most challenging to actually practice well. His one-time partner in crime was a vociferous poo-slinger. 'Course, he had credence over all the other critical spider monkeys 'cause he knew the guy and shared with him the matchless experience of being in the most popular, influential band in the history of rock. But even after all the vitriol of "I don't believe in Beatles" and "How do you sleep?", there were some records that Lennon in his well-earned recalcitrance just couldn't deny. This was one.

(Making this recollection from the night he died all the more gutting...assuming the story is true.)

"Don't Bother Me"--The real secret is, George Harrison can write great songs by his lonesome. His first composition to make a Beatles album is the second-best on the whole thing (trailing only the one sequenced before it), a lovesick ode penned while dude was shut up in a hotel room, just plain sick.

"So go away, leave me alone, don't bother me." This was the essence of Harrison within the band and so established, it proved the trio of songwriters as unique expressive entities fit for world domination.

Paul: flowery, fanciful, love is super.

John: excoriating, brazen, love is devastating.

George: "So go away, leave me alone, don't bother me."

The verses and Beach Blanket instrumental breakdown are fabulous sneers at well-wishers, and the middle eight is gently yet blatantly ominous. Really--don't bother the man. Internal rhyming means one thing: serious George is serious.

"Little Child"--Written for Ringo, and whew, it shows. Fun filler doesn't make anyone feel fuller, so toss it to Cap'n Big Schnozz over there, the guy whose job description includes the words "monotony" and "repetition" underlined in green magic marker.

Saving this track from bin status is the reality of John on harmonica and Paul at the piano. Excessively wonderful. Rock plus roll makes rollick.

"Till There Was You"--A remake of a track traced back to The Music Man, a play-turned-movie that I will never be arsed to watch. Acoustics and bongos and uber-romance, how could Paul say no.

"Please Please Mr. Postman"--The Carpenters did a really shit cover of "Ticket To Ride," but actually made this song sound...okay. Meanwhile, this is the second worst cover that the Beatles allowed to get onto tape. When I yearn for laughably dated treacle from the 1950s, I go to "Mr. Sandman," thanks much. Either way, it's a song about begging some guy for something.

"Roll Over Beethoven"--The initials of this track adequately describe the treatment Chuck Berry received despite his myriad of innovations to the nascent genre of rock.

There are few things I can safely say Americans do better than denizens of any other country. Singing the words "rockin' pneumonia" is one of those things.

"Roll Over Beethoven" belongs to a most peculiar species of song, those that can only be ruined by an incorrigibly untalented shit-fer-brains, or several of them in one place focused on a common goal of spoliation. Killer Kowalski riff, a good beat and you can fuck to it, and lyrics fit for movies wherein renegade youths drive real fast, crank the tunes too loud, and laugh at jokes only they get.

"Hold Me Tight"--Recorded during the session for Please Please Me, but, much like the scissors they give kids in grade school, didn't make the cut.

"You Really Got a Hold On Me"--John is sick of just ripping off Smokey and the Miracles, he wants to pay some downright homage! That's a good lad, always nice to ring home when you haven't in ages.

Pieces of three separate takes comprise this final version. George Martin should have insisted the fellas rip it out in one, or not at all. Chuck that chaff! The more studied you make your performance of a searingly sweet love ballad, the less authenticity shines through.

"I Wanna Be Your Man"--John and Paul ran into either the Rolling Stones or their manager on the street. Depends on who's telling the story. Anyway, everyone agrees that the Stones needed a hit single, being babies on the scene and all. Luckily, the original J and P Show had smashes to spare; they hit the studio, dredged up a song Paul had, tweaked it, and voila. The Stones' second single, "I Wanna Be Your Man," hits number twelve on the British charts.

It was no skin off any part of the body for John and Paul to provide their would-be rivals with a winner because neither thought much of it the song itself. They gave it to Ringo to sing, if that's any indication.

It's better than that though, a tidy chugger fit for warm nights and warmer bodies maneuvering those nights. George Martin's Hammond slips out of the chorus like the backdoor man of lurid legend.

(To those who like to impress via oddball trivia: this is the only song both the Beatles and Stones recorded.)

"Devil In Her Heart"--Ricky Dee got there first. The Beatles just switched the gender.

"Not a Second Time"--Shuffles out to...somewhere. Where the wind is gusty. Come back down, guys.

"Money"--Ending their first two albums with the two greatest covers they'd ever do? Another check in their column as One of the Greatest To Ever Do It. Barrett Strong's avaricious anthem is made wholly the property of four young men who soon enough would make the cash to burn alongside all that energy.

From the band that would proclaim "All You Need Is Love" when they found their own voice, this is fun stuff. Mind you, both those songs are illustrations of the same basic truth (which is why they succeed as individual tracks, despite the philosophical and moral contrast). Money is what you want, love is what you need. This is not to discount the very real necessity of financial solvency, or the hearts desire. But when it gets right down to it, the spirit won't further itself on a soul full of c-notes.

As if that isn't sufficiently head-spinning, "Money" subverts the conventional wisdom by being superior in stereo. The guitar three seconds in is just nasty as sucking down a mudshake, and the fuller sound is what you need, want and have.

You Know the Name--The Music of the Beatles, Pt. 1: Cross the Room and Join the Rest of the Band, Why Not

March 22, 1963

Wherein some randy soused gits go half-n-half and spin popular music wholly on its head.

The Beatles' crazed salad days defined the hoary term "pay your dues." The band was on the road virtually all of 1963, with two-a-days not uncommon, playing every willing and able club in the UK and even Sweden for a spell. The original plan for their debut release was a live recording of a gig at their hometown hub The Cavern, but originality can be overrated. On a rare day off, the fellas recorded Please Please Me (entirely live) in less than ten hours, with no one song requiring more than four takes to nail to satisfaction.

As their first recorded offering, Please Please Me showcases not just the band's deep debt to their myriad of influences through faithful yet distinctive cover songs, but also the burgeoning songwriting skills of plucky Messrs. McCartney and Lennon. (It was exceedingly rare in the 1960s for artists to actually write the songs they asked the world to fall in love with, even if only for a little while. So, perhaps spark one indicating the eventual conflagration.) A far better promise presented to the public all told than titling the record Off The Beatle Track, as producer/mentor/otherwise clear-thinking person George Martin wanted. You wanna know how to prematurely extinguish a cultural phenomenon, there's your 101 through 103 right there.

Still my favorite Beatles album cover ever. Don't they just look like the happiest harbingers of roiling sea change ever? Aw.

"I Saw Her Standing There"--Count off, blast off, Gerry and the Pacemakers fuck off. The most spectacular evocation of sweaty palms, shaggy locks and shimmying skirts. An EKG reading of rock and roll suitable for framing.

Early Beat-alls were dependent on the "woo!", which I have heard told it is in fact all about. To my mind, you will find no better "woo"s in their discography. These are honest, fraught exclamations, not just line filler.

"Well she was just seventeen/You know what I mean." Ain't no wink nudge pedo, this is naught but a like-aged horndog appreciating burgeoning femininity. So just walk on, duck.

The most common, overarching complaint against the early albums in stereo is that they simply rob the songs of their punch. It is glaring here. The vocal panning is egregiously shite. Microbats will navigate these songs easily. Play "I Saw Her Standing There" in mono, and it clumps together like the tastiest fudge, while stereo segregates the sounds so drastically as to render focused listening pointless. Those claps in stereo sound like a group of grannies trying to get the feeling back in their hands.

"Misery"--Entirely too peppy for a song titled such, and really, it isn't that peppy at all. I'm not expecting Kafka-esque doomsaying, but this just sounds mildly in the dumps but trying to play it up so they can score some happy pills.

"Anna (Go to Him)"--The first two lines rhyme "girl" with "girl." Damn Art Alexander, lyrics are hard. I get it though. Love makes the world go 'round, nobody wants to be alone, the duality of existence, yes yes it's all quite devastating in its elaborate simplicity. The Beatles are just getting off on the release of expression, no one expected theories or philosophies. Luckily, the riff is a real pincer and the choral "aaahhh"s are cute in the way a really stoic bunny is.

"I love you so/But if he loves you mo'."

Mmm, yes. Next slide, please.

"Chains"--In the great debate over Carole King and Joni Mitchell that exists primarily in my own head, King wins. Barely. Both women are responsible for some of the most timeless earworms of the 20th century. Both recorded albums regarded in certain circles outside of my own head as touchstones for women of a certain generation and singer/songwriters in general. And personally, I think Joni has the stronger catalog. But Carole King was once upon a time the musical half of one of music's most legendary songwriting duos. With then-husband Gerry Goffin, she provided aspiring performers some instant hits that frequently exceeded their expected expiration date. Members of the British Invasion bands of the 60s took to these records (particularly those performed by black artists) and came to idolize the American couple responsible for the joy and inspiration.

Goffin and King had no more famous devotees than John and Paul. In a 1963 profile feature for the NME, they were singled out as the boys favorite songwriters, and McCartney specifically would state in interviews that they aspired to reach the bar set by the Brill Buildings finest. Joni Mitchell certainly has her acolytes...Plant and Page, Prince, just to pinpoint the most prominent. But Carole King was one half of the songwriting team that arguably the greatest most celebrated songwriting team in rock and roll lore wanted to be like when they grew up.

Gah, all this talk about winning, I sound like Billy Corgan! Art doesn't keep score. Besides, both Carole and Joni at different times had sex with James Taylor. Who released his debut album in 1968 on Apple Records. The label founded by the Beatles. See? No one wins.

"Boys"--Wow, I didn't actually talk about that last song at all. Well, no such worries here.

This Shirelles classic was actually tailor-made for drummers to sing, thereby shattering the conventional wisdom that no way can you keep a beat and a tune simultaneously. A harmless li'l trifle, and enough fun to fill a good-sized water gun, but it still sounds too slow to my ears. Definitely would have benefited from consumption of dodgy stimulants prior to pressing "record."

"Ask Me Why"--Attacked by the deadly woo chain! Ask me why I'm listening to this. I'm scoobied. This is like watching a toddler learn to walk. Historically fascinating!

"Please Please Me"--The first single, penned 100% by Lennon, with a spiritual assist from onetime tourmate Roy Orbison. Considered an all-time classic by a lot of fans who aren't me. It's fine. The guitar gives good push. The tri-vocals are super. And the "come on/come on" always puts me in mind of "I Like It Like That" by the Dave Clark Five, which is a better song.

Apparently this is the first pop song about oral sex. I'm pretty sure at least three music journalists have used this scandalous bit of history as the jump off point for overwritten essays on sexuality in popular music. Ooh, you raunchy ragamuffins. There is no way this is a better track than "From Me to You." But...I'm getting ahead of myself. (It looks remarkably life-like. Badum-pish.)

Notable difference in mono and stereo: listen for Lennon's vocal flub during the last verse. It's supposed to be "I know you never even try, girl" but he starts with "Why do you," realizes his error, and just trails off to the melody.

"Love Me Do"--This was the smash that broke the Beatles in America, hitting the top 5 in the charts in 1964 and inciting a mania of some sort.

Written (primarily) by Paul McCartney in his living room. While he was skipping school. Fuck off. Honestly. I wrote the shittiest poetry fathomable through glassy eyes whenever I played hooky, and this fuckin' guy crafts a timeless ode to the most timeless desire engrained in humanity. (Lennon did the middle eight, a drop into D that gives the song a brief, needed sonic gravity.)

Vocal harmonies are all over Please Please Me, I mean it's what the Beatles fucking did, but nothing else matches the synergy here. It's easy, even corny, I mean what does "love me do" even mean? In sentiment it's very hand-holdy and shy-smiley, the polar opposite of the song before it, which may as well be called "Blow Me Do," really. The harmonica throughout fits snug with the easy rider drums, especially at the end of the former's non-showy solo when it drops out and a simple beat crashes before the vocals come back in. I bet this was the first song Animal from the Muppets learned on his kit.

"PS I Love You"--The first draft of a love letter to Buddy Holly, as signed by one smitten baby-faced Macca. He would go on to craft more intimate and intricate missives of devotion to an even greater selection of paramours in the future, and all for the better.

"Baby Its You"--John couldn't help but feel a twinge of guilt whenever the group played in front of black artists or fans in those early days, as their set was heavy on covers of songs originally performed by the marginalized minorities. He felt, in a way, fake. His gang of honkys could never hope to match the soul and passion, all borne of true suffering, agony and longing, that made the original compositions positively ache through the speakers. Lennon's shame and doubt is understandable, but in actuality, the stereotype of the awkward, soul-handicapped white singer is not always accurate. In the case of "Baby It's You," however, it's on the money like an ugly white guy's face.

"Do You Want to Know a Secret?"--John wrote this for George. The secret is, "I'm in love with you." Oh goddamnit. Guys, there's other emotions out there. Like anger towards Burt Convy, although really it was your fault for trusting him.

I confess to being rather taken by the enchanting scale here. Could have done more with it.

"A Taste of Honey"--Oh Beatles. Let's never again do this thing that has here been done.

"There's a Place"--A tutorial in spike sharpening, in just under two minutes.

"Twist and Shout"--Back to the racial discussion, 'cause that's never much the threat that one, eh? While "Baby It's You" was lackluster and bland, "Twist and Shout" absolutely throttles the senses and hurtles the listener right there to the Cavern Club, watching lads in suits set the groundwork for actual revolution. Yes Virginia, white musicians can sometimes do a song even better...I'm thinking the Diamonds' rendition of "Little Darlin'" and Rare Earth's version of "Get Ready," which I tell you, when sex in outer space happens, it better happen to that song.

You can actually hear Lennon's throat lining tear. It must have sucked for him, but it rocks for the rest of us. That's giving yourself to the music.

Of course, Ferris Bueller had to fuck it up again for whitey. Horns? Please please you.

You Know the Name--The Music of the Beatles, Introduction

"Do you ever write about anything but Sonic Youth?"

Yes. SY-based material makes up 'round 6% of my total scribbles. Admittedly, it's received 98% of all the attention.

"Would you ever do a full discography review for your second-favorite band?"

Oh yeah. I can tell you right now I'll absolutely do that.

"Cool. Look forward to it."

Yeah, cool.

*remembers who her second-favorite band is*

Ah, shit.

---------------------------------------------------------

The series title is unchallenging, yet undeniably true; no band has inspired more volumes detailing more inane minutiae than PaulJohnGeorgeRingo. Even people who avowedly loathe the Beatles know more about them than many bands whose music they enjoy, thanks to cultural osmosis. So, no ostentatious preamble. This is a song by song review of every Beatles album, in mono and stereo. For the sake of my sanity and yours, I will not separate each album into reviews of each version. Where the differences are that noticeable, I will make my remarks. Please Please Me is first up, shortly.

Update

Thanks to computer repair issues, the Beatles discography review will be up in February. Just a flesh wound, then.