Life in the Key of Song: Strawberry Fields Forever (Revisited)

strawberry-fields2

Living is easy with eyes closed/Misunderstanding all you see,

It’s getting hard to be someone but it all works out/It doesn’t matter much to me.

Those aren’t just defining lines from a defining song by the defining band of all time. They are lines written by the closest thing we humans get to a super hero, at the top of his game, having just shouted down from the mountain top on one of the most innovative, shape-shifting songs of all time, “Tomorrow Never Knows”.

(Don’t take my word for it. Listen to the color of your dreams):

If some people, understandably, think the everything-plus-kitchen-sink approach on the subsequent Sgt. Pepper was in places a tad too haphazard and indulgent, no such concerns can apply here: Lennon knew what he wanted, telling MVP producer George Martin he wanted his vocals to sound like “a hundred chanting Tibetan monks.” No worries, right? Martin, with appreciable assistance from an always-game McCartney, sliced, diced, looped and spliced, and second by painstaking second, reel-to-reel tape transported the magic from Lennon’s mind. To say that this song set the tone for experimentation and was influential across multiple genres, including –or especially– ones that didn’t even exist yet, scarcely does it justice.

Revolver, whether or not it is the “best” album in rock history (who can authoritatively claim this, and more importantly, who cares?), is probably the most important. It inspired Pet Sounds which in turn inspired Sgt. Pepper which in turn inspired everything else: the good, bad and ugly that followed; tomorrow never knew what hit it. It is also perfect. If you disagree, it’s not the album, it’s you. And that’s fine. But move along, because you’re wrong. But (she said, she said) “What about Yellow Submarine?” How can an album that is not filled with perfect songs be perfect? Because.

Lennon, despite the perfectly legitimate and understandable lionizing he was subject to during –and especially after– his life, was, arguably, the most human Beatle. Ringo and Harrison were more down to earth (partly because their abilities, frankly speaking, kept them more firmly grounded), and McCartney has always seemed a genuinely friendly fella (his long and by all accounts happy relationship with wife Linda until her death speaks eloquently of the superficial Sun-King entitlements he was able to avoid or eschew, to his considerable credit). But Lennon, ever inscrutable, bigger than life –and Jesus–(he said, he said) and impossible to pigeon-hole, must be, in the final analysis, the most easy to understand, on human and artistic levels.

It is, therefore, revealing that “Strawberry Fields Forever”, a song that now stands out among (if not above) all others as the most singular Lennon composition (yes, taking into account “In My Life”, “I Am The Walrus”, “Happiness Is A Warm Gun”, “Dear Prudence”, “Come Together” and “Across The Universe” –just to name the true heavy hitters in the Beatles canon and not even taking into account his ten years of solo work) had such humble origins. Listen to the evolution of a masterpiece:

In late 1995 (15 years ago, already?) when The Beatles Anthology series came out, the assorted demo cuts and false starts were something beyond revelatory. Aside from bootlegs (and pre-digital files or the ubiquity of Internet content) this was the first opportunity many people had to peak behind the golden curtain and listen to the best band ever struggling to assemble the songs we learn and sing. The Beatles were sufficiently god-like that we not only never saw them sweat: literally after ’66 as they did not appear live, figuratively in the sense that they were operating at a level approximated by few collectives before or since, dropping new Songs in the Key of Life every other month.

Put another way, The White Album was released three years after Rubber Soul. Three years. Actually stop and think about that for a second. It is—or at least was—tempting to imagine that these albums were dreamed into life through a combination of drugs, meditation, competition and the inexplicable forces of Fate decreeing that these four lads from Liverpool would be the Oracles of our era. In actuality, we now know these magicians sometimes struggled to conjure their spells and in some cases it required a patience and faith we mere mortals are quite accustomed to. Put less pretentiously, making some of the best rock music of all time was hard work. Rather than diminishing the import of these songs, this concession augments it.

Hearing a frustrated Lennon sigh “Canna do it, I canna do it” less than thirty seconds into the first take reveals a Lennon most of us are not accustomed to, or comfortable hearing. He sounds almost defeated and entirely human. That he stuck with it and saw it through is illuminating as it is inspiring. It is also intriguing to hear one of the ultimate psychedelic dreamscapes in its formative stages as a simple acoustic song. While it is always insightful to see the scribbled notes of a poem or story in process, hearing the development of a song so indelibly enshrined in our collective consciousness is arresting, and invaluable. It still doesn’t mean we can comprehend how exactly this song (these songs!) came to be, but it helps us understand and appreciate. One more time, for the first time, forever.

Everyone knows what happened next. Just before Sgt. Pepper helped define the Summer of Love and introduce the mixed blessing also known as the concept album, The Beatles released what is arguably the most transcendent single of all time. McCartney (as always, making it sound easy), contributed “Penny Lane”, which is neither as oblique nor unsettling as “Strawberry Fields Forever”, but is disarmingly rich in detail and the product of a songwriter firing on all cylinders. Lennon, of course, had agonized over his snapshot of youth seen through the glass hazily, and with the final touches –as was often the case circa ’67– of the visionary George Martin, saw his simple reminiscence mutate into the surreal sound-bomb it remains today.

Nothing is real. And nothing to get hung about.

Strawberry Fields Forever.

Cranberry sauce.

What he said.

Share

Happy Birthday, Macca!

pmac

Revisiting a piece I wrote two years ago, for #70, entitled “When I’m 64 (Plus Six): My Favorite Macca”.

***

Paul McCartney who, no matter where you stand on rock music, The Beatles or list-making, is indisputably one of the best –and most important– popular musicians of the last century. Our artistic landscape would be inconceivably altered without his work, and the myriad minds he inspired.

I have written many (many) words about The Beatles, and before I’m done I will undoubtedly write many more: The Beatles are like the sea or the sky; they are there, life is impossible to imagine (or live) without them, so they must be recognized and celebrated. A little is never enough.

To commemorate Macca’s 70th birthday this week, rather than write (too many) more words, I figured an appropriate way to pay tribute was by selecting my favorite song of his from each proper Beatles album (note: not the ones I necessarily think are the best; just the ones I personally like the most, the ones that have given me ceaseless joy over the decades).

“I Saw Her Standing There” (from Please Please Me).

Talk about an opening statement. The countdown that kicks off the first album (one two three FAH!) is one of the most exhilarating few seconds in early-’60s rock. Plus, where Chuck Berry brilliantly danced around the obvious in his lascivious love letters, Paul –with a wink and a nod– minces neither words nor intentions: “Well she was just seventeen/And you know what I mean…” It is both fair and accurate to say that nothing was ever the same after this.

“All My Loving” (from With The Beatles)

The Beatles were still, arguably, too buttoned-up and safe by half on their second album, at least considering what was just around the corner. At this point they were systematically focused on one thing: writing perfect hit songs. That is what this: a pure, unfiltered distillation of their songwriting genius.

“Things We Said Today” (from A Hard Day’s Night)

It is still astonishing to consider how quickly The Beatles went from very good to great (after that, they went somewhere else we are still not capable of properly quantifying). This McCartney masterpiece, on an album fairly dominated by some of Lennon’s stronger early writing, is wise beyond its years, typically bittersweet (Lennon without Mac too often went bitter, Mac without Lennon too often got syrupy sweet but when both found the right balance nobody could touch them) and overflowing with confidence. It’s a short statement of purpose that cries: “I am genius, hear me roar” and it’s over before you know it.

“I’ll Follow The Sun” (from Beatles for Sale)

The fourth album is proof that the Beatles were human. It could not have been more obvious that they were burning out, exhausted and running low on ideas (almost half the album is covers). “I’ll Follow The Sun” is proof that even on half-a-tank, Macca’s engine could still kick into overdrive. Not terribly deep or profound, “I’ll Follow The Sun” is nothing more or less than a catchy, irresistible tune.

“The Night Before” (from Help!)

Now we’re talking. 1965 was the ultimate sweet-spot for the Lennon/McCartney collaboration: at no other time before or after did they write so prolifically and sing together so beautifully. So many tracks on both Help! and Rubber Soul feature them harmonizing in ways that should make even lukewarm fans acknowledge that these two men were placed on this earth to do exactly what they did and, for a time, do it together better than anyone else ever did.

“You Won’t See Me” (from Rubber Soul)

This was, possibly, the last album where Lennon clearly dominated in terms of quality and originality. It is very likely (if probable) that it was the sheer strengh of Lennon’s songwriting in ’65 that motivated Mac to push himself and, in the process, go to another level and become the de facto leader of the band. In hindsight, haters can say it was this exact turn of events that signalled the beginning of the end. Maybe. But looking at what McCartney achieved from ’66 to ’70, it’s difficult to deny that this was not both a necessary and wonderful thing.

“For No One” (from Revolver)

Still straining, albeit effortlessly (or making it sound as such, which is one handy definition of virtuosity) for increasingly mature material, Macca renders a topic that could be –and often is– reduced to soap opera melodrama into something at once ambivalent and devastating. “For No One” is the story of a relationship that ended because…well because relationships end. Is it her fault? His? Who knows. It’s ambiguous, painful and unforgettable, like love can be. This economic track evinces insight and empathy that McCartney would fully develop on the next album with “She’s Leaving Home”.

“Fixing A Hole” (from Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band)

For the hype and praise (all of it warranted, obviously) heaped on Sgt. Pepper in particular, and 1967 in general, this particular tune seems to slip under the radar. For me, in addition to being yet another short burst of pop perfection (ho hum), it is an extremely laid back and convincing statement of individuality. To his credit, even though he wore the outfit (look at the album cover) he did not easily pay allegiance to any particular cause. He may have embraced the countercultural energy of the era, but he was his own man. He didn’t name names or slag off any institutions and he did not need to. In one of the seminal years in rock and roll history, McCartney did not surf the wave that crested during the Summer of Love: he was the wind that helped create the wave.

“Penny Lane” (from Magical Mystery Tour)

Of course this is not from a “proper” album; winding up on Magical Mystery Tour, it was introduced to a not-quite-suspecting world as one half of the most brilliant/influential single of all time, on the flip side of Lennon’s four minute revolution, “Strawberry Fields Forever” (more on that here).

Debate has raged as to how much “better” Sgt. Pepper would be had the lads saved these two songs for it. No question the quality of the album would have improved but…well, it wouldn’t be the same. And there is something almost heroic about The Beatles, already the biggest band in the universe, putting out a single just to let the world know they were still in charge. Ever-unappreciated fifth Beatle George Martin’s presence is particularly felt on this one, courtesy of the trumpet flourishes (the idea of which came to McCartney in a burst of inspiration while listening to Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos.) There is no shortage of delightful irony that Mac, easily one of the most famous and beloved rock stars on the scene, sings wistfully about his childhood. Nostalgic without being sentimental, McCartney illustrates that he was king, culturally and creatively, circa 1967.

“Hey Jude” (no album; single from ’68).

Just because.

“Blackbird”, “Mother Nature’s Son” (two songs from the double-album The Beatles)

I went deep (and perhaps into the deep end) on the infamous, inimitable White Album on the occasion of its 4oth birthday, here.

Trying to cut this album down to size (something George Martin fought for, and something each member probably advocated at some point, in ’68 or after) is ultimately like chasing that whale around all the continents and hunting him down; it can’t be done. Impossible, like trying to make sense out of “Revolution 9″ (forwards or backwards, and back in the day, we tried it many times). And that is the point of this album: it really is just an album a band that happened to be growing apart made in between ’67 and ’69. Not working together as closely, or productively, as they once had, does the end product suffer? Perhaps. But even with the odds and sods (even with Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da for God’s sake), the bottom line is that The Beatles couldn’t help but be brilliant. They were as close to the sun as they’d ever get at this point in their careers, and this work endures as a sort of field recording that touches on almost all the music made in the modern era, while anticipating (and to a large degree commencing) the post ’60s era (one might even say that by recognizing the ’60s were effectively over, The Beatles effectively ended the ’60s). Could it have been edited to make a more concise, aesthetically satisfactory result? Maybe. But would it be as satisfying? Fortunately, that is the question that cannot, and need not, ever be answered.

“Hey Bulldog” (from Yellow Submarine)

Yes, this is a Lennon song. Yes, it would not sound remotely the same without McCartney. Here is what I wrote about this song while making some personal observations on the occasion of the 30th anniversary of Lennon’s death (here):

It is a near miraculous moment in time captured for posterity: priceless because it affords a brief but beautiful window into this other world, the laboratory where the magic got made. And this is most definitely magical; it is also exceedingly bittersweet. This track was cut as the group was beginning to put together the puzzle pieces that ultimately comprised The Beatles (White Album) and things had begun to unravel. This, then, is not merely an illustration –albeit a wonderful one– of the organic process of inspiration and improvisation, but a document of the Lennon/McCartney engine powering along at full steam. Watching the interaction (look at Mac’s ebullient body language at the 2.50 mark!) removes any doubt that at their best, these two amigos required ingredients that were always lacking once they went their separate ways.

“You Never Give Me Your Money” (from Abbey Road)

I celebrated Abbey Road in some detail here. My .02: Whenever I listen to Abbey Road, I find myself feeling grateful that the collective world of musicians did not, upon hearing it for the first time, throw up their hands and get day jobs. Why bother? they did not ask, allowing us to remain thankful for everything that keeps filling our ears, all these years later. But what must it have sounded like, to mortals simply trying to occupy the same planet, when this one originally dropped?

And what can I possibly say about this song that it doesn’t say quite nicely for itself? Personally, I would put this one at the very top of the heap if asked, “why do you insist Paul McCartney is a genius?”

“Let It Be” (from Let It Be)

And I would put “Let It Be” next to the top, if asked the same question.

There is only one thing to add, and it says everything that needs to be said: McCartney was not yet 30 years old when he wrote and recorded this song.

As we get older we gradually and however reluctantly acknowledge that we will, one day, cease to exist. For anyone not yet born when the Beatles broke up, we will most likely end up watching many of our musical gods expire on our watch. I don’t know how I’m going to react when Paul McCartney eventually goes, but here’s hoping it’s not for a very long time indeed. Happy 70th, Macca!

Share

Life in the Key of Song: Strawberry Fields Forever

Living is easy with eyes closed/Misunderstanding all you see,

It’s getting hard to be someone but it all works out/It doesn’t matter much to me.

Those aren’t just defining lines from a defining song by the defining band of all time. They are lines written by the closest thing we humans get to a super hero, at the top of his game, having just shouted down from the mountain top on one of the most innovative, shape-shifting songs of all time, “Tomorrow Never Knows”.

(Don’t take my word for it. Listen to the color of your dreams):

If some people, understandably, think the everything-plus-kitchen-sink approach on the subsequent Sgt. Pepper was in places a tad too haphazard and indulgent, no such concerns can apply here: Lennon knew what he wanted, telling MVP producer George Martin he wanted his vocals to sound like “a hundred chanting Tibetan monks.” No worries, right? Martin, with appreciable assistance from an always-game McCartney, sliced, diced, looped and spliced, and second by painstaking second, reel-to-reel tape transported the magic from Lennon’s mind. To say that this song set the tone for experimentation and was influential across multiple genres, including –or especially– ones that didn’t even exist yet, scarcely does it justice.

Revolver, whether or not it is the “best” album in rock history (who can authoritatively claim this, and more importantly, who cares?), is probably the most important. It inspired Pet Sounds which in turn inspired Sgt. Pepper which in turn inspired everything else: the good, bad and ugly that followed; tomorrow never knew what hit it. It is also perfect. If you disagree, it’s not the album, it’s you. And that’s fine. But move along, because you’re wrong. But (she said, she said) “What about Yellow Submarine?” How can an album that is not filled with perfect songs be perfect? Because.

Lennon, despite the perfectly legitimate and understandable lionizing he was subject to during –and especially after– his life, was, arguably, the most human Beatle. Ringo and Harrison were more down to earth (partly because their abilities, frankly speaking, kept them more firmly grounded), and McCartney has always seemed a genuinely friendly fella (his long and by all accounts happy relationship with wife Linda until her death speaks eloquently of the superficial Sun-King entitlements he was able to avoid or eschew, to his considerable credit). But Lennon, ever inscrutable, bigger than life –and Jesus–(he said, he said) and impossible to pigeon-hole, must be, in the final analysis, the most easy to understand, on human and artistic levels.

It is, therefore, revealing that “Strawberry Fields Forever”, a song that now stands out among (if not above) all others as the most singular Lennon composition (yes, taking into account “In My Life”, “I Am The Walrus”, “Happiness Is A Warm Gun”, “Dear Prudence”, “Come Together” and “Across The Universe” –just to name the true heavy hitters in the Beatles canon and not even taking into account his ten years of solo work) had such humble origins. Listen to the evolution of a masterpiece:

In late 1995 (15 years ago, already?) when The Beatles Anthology series came out, the assorted demo cuts and false starts were something beyond revelatory. Aside from bootlegs (and pre-digital files or the ubiquity of Internet content) this was the first opportunity many people had to peak behind the golden curtain and listen to the best band ever struggling to assemble the songs we learn and sing. The Beatles were sufficiently god-like that we not only never saw them sweat: literally after ’66 as they did not appear live, figuratively in the sense that they were operating at a level approximated by few collectives before or since, dropping new Songs in the Key of Life every other month.

Put another way, The White Album was released three years after Rubber Soul. Three years. Actually stop and think about that for a second. It is—or at least was—tempting to imagine that these albums were dreamed into life through a combination of drugs, meditation, competition and the inexplicable forces of Fate decreeing that these four lads from Liverpool would be the Oracles of our era. In actuality, we now know these magicians sometimes struggled to conjure their spells and in some cases it required a patience and faith we mere mortals are quite accustomed to. Put less pretentiously, making some of the best rock music of all time was hard work. Rather than diminishing the import of these songs, this concession augments it.

Hearing a frustrated Lennon sigh “Canna do it, I canna do it” less than thirty seconds into the first take reveals a Lennon most of us are not accustomed to, or comfortable hearing. He sounds almost defeated and entirely human. That he stuck with it and saw it through is illuminating as it is inspiring. It is also intriguing to hear one of the ultimate psychedelic dreamscapes in its formative stages as a simple acoustic song. While it is always insightful to see the scribbled notes of a poem or story in process, hearing the development of a song so indelibly enshrined in our collective consciousness is arresting, and invaluable. It still doesn’t mean we can comprehend how exactly this song (these songs!) came to be, but it helps us understand and appreciate. One more time, for the first time, forever.

Everyone knows what happened next. Just before Sgt. Pepper helped define the Summer of Love and introduce the mixed blessing also known as the concept album, The Beatles released what is arguably the most transcendent single of all time. McCartney (as always, making it sound easy), contributed “Penny Lane”, which is neither as oblique nor unsettling as “Strawberry Fields Forever”, but is disarmingly rich in detail and the product of a songwriter firing on all cylinders. Lennon, of course, had agonized over his snapshot of youth seen through the glass hazily, and with the final touches –as was often the case circa ’67– of the visionary George Martin, saw his simple reminiscence mutate into the surreal sound-bomb it remains today.

Nothing is real. And nothing to get hung about.

Strawberry Fields Forever.

Cranberry sauce.

What he said.

Share

When I’m 64 (Plus Six): My Favorite Macca

 

Paul McCartney who, no matter where you stand on rock music, The Beatles or list-making, is indisputably one of the best –and most important– popular musicians of the last century. Our artistic landscape would be inconceivably altered without his work, and the myriad minds he inspired.

I have written many (many) words about The Beatles, and before I’m done I will undoubtedly write many more: The Beatles are like the sea or the sky; they are there, life is impossible to imagine (or live) without them, so they must be recognized and celebrated. A little is never enough.

To commemorate Macca’s 70th birthday this week, rather than write (too many) more words, I figured an appropriate way to pay tribute was by selecting my favorite song of his from each proper Beatles album (note: not the ones I necessarily think are the best; just the ones I personally like the most, the ones that have given me ceaseless joy over the decades).

“I Saw Her Standing There” (from Please Please Me).

Talk about an opening statement. The countdown that kicks off the first album (one two three FAH!) is one of the most exhilarating few seconds in early-’60s rock. Plus, where Chuck Berry brilliantly danced around the obvious in his lascivious love letters, Paul –with a wink and a nod– minces neither words nor intentions: “Well she was just seventeen/And you know what I mean…” It is both fair and accurate to say that nothing was ever the same after this.

“All My Loving” (from With The Beatles)

The Beatles were still, arguably, too buttoned-up and safe by half on their second album, at least considering what was just around the corner. At this point they were systematically focused on one thing: writing perfect hit songs. That is what this: a pure, unfiltered distillation of their songwriting genius.

“Things We Said Today” (from A Hard Day’s Night)

It is still astonishing to consider how quickly The Beatles went from very good to great (after that, they went somewhere else we are still not capable of properly quantifying). This McCartney masterpiece, on an album fairly dominated by some of Lennon’s stronger early writing, is wise beyond its years, typically bittersweet (Lennon without Mac too often went bitter, Mac without Lennon too often got syrupy sweet but when both found the right balance nobody could touch them) and overflowing with confidence. It’s a short statement of purpose that cries: “I am genius, hear me roar” and it’s over before you know it.

“I’ll Follow The Sun” (from Beatles for Sale)

The fourth album is proof that the Beatles were human. It could not have been more obvious that they were burning out, exhausted and running low on ideas (almost half the album is covers). “I’ll Follow The Sun” is proof that even on half-a-tank, Macca’s engine could still kick into overdrive. Not terribly deep or profound, “I’ll Follow The Sun” is nothing more or less than a catchy, irresistible tune.

“The Night Before” (from Help!)

Now we’re talking. 1965 was the ultimate sweet-spot for the Lennon/McCartney collaboration: at no other time before or after did they write so prolifically and sing together so beautifully. So many tracks on both Help! and Rubber Soul feature them harmonizing in ways that should make even lukewarm fans acknowledge that these two men were placed on this earth to do exactly what they did and, for a time, do it together better than anyone else ever did.

“You Won’t See Me” (from Rubber Soul)

This was, possibly, the last album where Lennon clearly dominated in terms of quality and originality. It is very likely (if probable) that it was the sheer strengh of Lennon’s songwriting in ’65 that motivated Mac to push himself and, in the process, go to another level and become the de facto leader of the band. In hindsight, haters can say it was this exact turn of events that signalled the beginning of the end. Maybe. But looking at what McCartney achieved from ’66 to ’70, it’s difficult to deny that this was not both a necessary and wonderful thing.

“For No One” (from Revolver)

Still straining, albeit effortlessly (or making it sound as such, which is one handy definition of virtuosity) for increasingly mature material, Macca renders a topic that could be –and often is– reduced to soap opera melodrama into something at once ambivalent and devastating. “For No One” is the story of a relationship that ended because…well because relationships end. Is it her fault? His? Who knows. It’s ambiguous, painful and unforgettable, like love can be. This economic track evinces insight and empathy that McCartney would fully develop on the next album with “She’s Leaving Home”.

“Fixing A Hole” (from Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band)

For the hype and praise (all of it warranted, obviously) heaped on Sgt. Pepper in particular, and 1967 in general, this particular tune seems to slip under the radar. For me, in addition to being yet another short burst of pop perfection (ho hum), it is an extremely laid back and convincing statement of individuality. To his credit, even though he wore the outfit (look at the album cover) he did not easily pay allegiance to any particular cause. He may have embraced the countercultural energy of the era, but he was his own man. He didn’t name names or slag off any institutions and he did not need to. In one of the seminal years in rock and roll history, McCartney did not surf the wave that crested during the Summer of Love: he was the wind that helped create the wave.

“Penny Lane” (from Magical Mystery Tour)

Of course this is not from a “proper” album; winding up on Magical Mystery Tour, it was introduced to a not-quite-suspecting world as one half of the most brilliant/influential single of all time, on the flip side of Lennon’s four minute revolution, “Strawberry Fields Forever” (more on that here).

Debate has raged as to how much “better” Sgt. Pepper would be had the lads saved these two songs for it. No question the quality of the album would have improved but…well, it wouldn’t be the same. And there is something almost heroic about The Beatles, already the biggest band in the universe, putting out a single just to let the world know they were still in charge. Ever-unappreciated fifth Beatle George Martin’s presence is particularly felt on this one, courtesy of the trumpet flourishes (the idea of which came to McCartney in a burst of inspiration while listening to Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos.) There is no shortage of delightful irony that Mac, easily one of the most famous and beloved rock stars on the scene, sings wistfully about his childhood. Nostalgic without being sentimental, McCartney illustrates that he was king, culturally and creatively, circa 1967.

“Hey Jude” (no album; single from ’68).

Just because.

“Blackbird”, “Mother Nature’s Son” (two songs from the double-album The Beatles)

I went deep (and perhaps into the deep end) on the infamous, inimitable White Album on the occasion of its 4oth birthday, here.

Trying to cut this album down to size (something George Martin fought for, and something each member probably advocated at some point, in ’68 or after) is ultimately like chasing that whale around all the continents and hunting him down; it can’t be done. Impossible, like trying to make sense out of “Revolution 9″ (forwards or backwards, and back in the day, we tried it many times). And that is the point of this album: it really is just an album a band that happened to be growing apart made in between ’67 and ’69. Not working together as closely, or productively, as they once had, does the end product suffer? Perhaps. But even with the odds and sods (even with Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da for God’s sake), the bottom line is that The Beatles couldn’t help but be brilliant. They were as close to the sun as they’d ever get at this point in their careers, and this work endures as a sort of field recording that touches on almost all the music made in the modern era, while anticipating (and to a large degree commencing) the post ’60s era (one might even say that by recognizing the ’60s were effectively over, The Beatles effectively ended the ’60s). Could it have been edited to make a more concise, aesthetically satisfactory result? Maybe. But would it be as satisfying? Fortunately, that is the question that cannot, and need not, ever be answered.

“Hey Bulldog” (from Yellow Submarine)

Yes, this is a Lennon song. Yes, it would not sound remotely the same without McCartney. Here is what I wrote about this song while making some personal observations on the occasion of the 30th anniversary of Lennon’s death (here):

It is a near miraculous moment in time captured for posterity: priceless because it affords a brief but beautiful window into this other world, the laboratory where the magic got made. And this is most definitely magical; it is also exceedingly bittersweet. This track was cut as the group was beginning to put together the puzzle pieces that ultimately comprised The Beatles (White Album) and things had begun to unravel. This, then, is not merely an illustration –albeit a wonderful one– of the organic process of inspiration and improvisation, but a document of the Lennon/McCartney engine powering along at full steam. Watching the interaction (look at Mac’s ebullient body language at the 2.50 mark!) removes any doubt that at their best, these two amigos required ingredients that were always lacking once they went their separate ways.

“You Never Give Me Your Money” (from Abbey Road)

I celebrated Abbey Road in some detail here. My .02: Whenever I listen to Abbey Road, I find myself feeling grateful that the collective world of musicians did not, upon hearing it for the first time, throw up their hands and get day jobs. Why bother? they did not ask, allowing us to remain thankful for everything that keeps filling our ears, all these years later. But what must it have sounded like, to mortals simply trying to occupy the same planet, when this one originally dropped?

And what can I possibly say about this song that it doesn’t say quite nicely for itself? Personally, I would put this one at the very top of the heap if asked, “why do you insist Paul McCartney is a genius?”

“Let It Be” (from Let It Be)

And I would put “Let It Be” next to the top, if asked the same question.

There is only one thing to add, and it says everything that needs to be said: McCartney was not yet 30 years old when he wrote and recorded this song.

As we get older we gradually and however reluctantly acknowledge that we will, one day, cease to exist. For anyone not yet born when the Beatles broke up, we will most likely end up watching many of our musical gods expire on our watch. I don’t know how I’m going to react when Paul McCartney eventually goes, but here’s hoping it’s not for a very long time indeed. Happy 70th, Macca!

Share

Life in the Key of Song: Strawberry Fields Forever

Living is easy with eyes closed/Misunderstanding all you see,

It’s getting hard to be someone but it all works out/It doesn’t matter much to me.

Those aren’t just defining lines from a defining song by the defining band of all time. They are lines written by the closest thing we humans get to a super hero, at the top of his game, having just shouted down from the mountain top on one of the most innovative, shape-shifting songs of all time, “Tomorrow Never Knows”.

(Don’t take my word for it. Listen to the color of your dreams):

If some people, understandably, think the everything-plus-kitchen-sink approach on the subsequent Sgt. Pepper was in places a tad too haphazard and indulgent, no such concerns can apply here: Lennon knew what he wanted, telling MVP producer George Martin he wanted his vocals to sound like “a hundred chanting Tibetan monks.” No worries, right? Martin, with appreciable assistance from an always-game McCartney, sliced, diced, looped and spliced, and second by painstaking second, reel-to-reel tape transported the magic from Lennon’s mind. To say that this song set the tone for experimentation and was influential across multiple genres, including –or especially– ones that didn’t even exist yet, scarcely does it justice.

Revolver, whether or not it is the “best” album in rock history (who can authoritatively claim this, and more importantly, who cares?), is probably the most important. It inspired Pet Sounds which in turn inspired Sgt. Pepper which in turn inspired everything else: the good, bad and ugly that followed; tomorrow never knew what hit it. It is also perfect. If you disagree, it’s not the album, it’s you. And that’s fine. But move along, because you’re wrong. But (she said, she said) “What about Yellow Submarine?” How can an album that is not filled with perfect songs be perfect? Because.

Lennon, despite the perfectly legitimate and understandable lionizing he was subject to during –and especially after– his life, was, arguably, the most human Beatle. Ringo and Harrison were more down to earth (partly because their abilities, frankly speaking, kept them more firmly grounded), and McCartney has always seemed a genuinely friendly fella (his long and by all accounts happy relationship with wife Linda until her death speaks eloquently of the superficial Sun-King entitlements he was able to avoid or eschew, to his considerable credit). But Lennon, ever inscrutable, bigger than life –and Jesus–(he said, he said) and impossible to pigeon-hole, must be, in the final analysis, the most easy to understand, on human and artistic levels.

It is, therefore, revealing that “Strawberry Fields Forever”, a song that now stands out among (if not above) all others as the most singular Lennon composition (yes, taking into account “In My Life”, “I Am The Walrus”, “Happiness Is A Warm Gun”, “Dear Prudence”, “Come Together” and “Across The Universe” –just to name the true heavy hitters in the Beatles canon and not even taking into account his ten years of solo work) had such humble origins. Listen to the evolution of a masterpiece:

In late 1995 (15 years ago, already?) when The Beatles Anthology series came out, the assorted demo cuts and false starts were something beyond revelatory. Aside from bootlegs (and pre-digital files or the ubiquity of Internet content) this was the first opportunity many people had to peak behind the golden curtain and listen to the best band ever struggling to assemble the songs we learn and sing. The Beatles were sufficiently god-like that we not only never saw them sweat: literally after ’66 as they did not appear live, figuratively in the sense that they were operating at a level approximated by few collectives before or since, dropping new Songs in the Key of Life every other month.

Put another way, The White Album was released three years after Rubber Soul. Three years. Actually stop and think about that for a second. It is—or at least was—tempting to imagine that these albums were dreamed into life through a combination of drugs, meditation, competition and the inexplicable forces of Fate decreeing that these four lads from Liverpool would be the Oracles of our era. In actuality, we now know these magicians sometimes struggled to conjure their spells and in some cases it required a patience and faith we mere mortals are quite accustomed to. Put less pretentiously, making some of the best rock music of all time was hard work. Rather than diminishing the import of these songs, this concession augments it.

Hearing a frustrated Lennon sigh “Canna do it, I canna do it” less than thirty seconds into the first take reveals a Lennon most of us are not accustomed to, or comfortable hearing. He sounds almost defeated and entirely human. That he stuck with it and saw it through is illuminating as it is inspiring. It is also intriguing to hear one of the ultimate psychedelic dreamscapes in its formative stages as a simple acoustic song. While it is always insightful to see the scribbled notes of a poem or story in process, hearing the development of a song so indelibly enshrined in our collective consciousness is arresting, and invaluable. It still doesn’t mean we can comprehend how exactly this song (these songs!) came to be, but it helps us understand and appreciate. One more time, for the first time, forever.

Everyone knows what happened next. Just before Sgt. Pepper helped define the Summer of Love and introduce the mixed blessing also known as the concept album, The Beatles released what is arguably the most transcendent single of all time. McCartney (as always, making it sound easy), contributed “Penny Lane”, which is neither as oblique nor unsettling as “Strawberry Fields Forever”, but is disarmingly rich in detail and the product of a songwriter firing on all cylinders. Lennon, of course, had agonized over his snapshot of youth seen through the glass hazily, and with the final touches –as was often the case circa ’67– of the visionary George Martin, saw his simple reminiscence mutate into the surreal sound-bomb it remains today.

Nothing is real. And nothing to get hung about.

Strawberry Fields Forever.

Cranberry sauce.

What he said.

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