Even by the Beatles' exceedingly high standards, there had to be a lower end of the spectrum to begin with. Jaunty, a bit whimsical and somewhat pointless, this brief interlude from McCartney sounds like a practice run for the vintage pop froth of the similarly named Honey Pie.
This closer to the epic album is a simple lullaby written by Lennon and sung, with a 1950s style swoon, by Starr and it is pretty much that. However, given their indisputable brilliance in pop, it sounds quite sweet and blissfully reassuring, just like a lullaby should.
While aurally as sugary and invigorating as anything by McCartney, Mother Nature's Son is something that he had not only done before but also what he would do later. It will still sound ethereal and vivid, especially as dawn breaks and your senses are still blissfully sleepy.
With typically smarmy wit, Lennon turns a lyric for a children's song into a scathing parody. The nutty words were penned back in Rishikesh and lampooned a certain American who was reportedly boasting of his exploits as a game-hunter. Everyone can be heard singing along joyously, including Yoko Ono.
Long before Pink Floyd thought up of an entire album devoted to Orwell's Animal Farm, Harrison gave the upper-crust piggies of English society a good whacking in this baroque ballad that disguises sneering disgust slyly with a shimmering veneer of childish banality. It is both Machiavellian and melodious.
This was McCartney at his cheekiest. Reportedly inspired by the ludicrous sight of monkeys copulating in the hills of India, this doo-wop howler has him roaring the titular lyric again and again with an almost infectious verve that could have worked even better for a longer, sleazier cut.
The second song sung by Starr has a wonderfully upbeat rhythm and makes for some fun-filled, head-nodding listening during a lazy picnic. The self-referential lyric is clever as well and you do end up wishing that he had written a few more songs in his run.
Don't write off this bouncy ska song just because it is considered as one of their lows. Instead, marvel at how Lennon's jaunty piano intro kicks off one of the most charming and cheerful moments in the album. McCartney might have fussed over it but it is still pure musical bliss.
Conversely, it is McCartney's tinkling piano that begins, unforgettably, one of Lennon's most acidic compositions, a barbed attack at the alleged misdemeanours of Maharishi Mahesh Yogi in which he is turned from spiritual guru to a sleazy trash queen. Typically, this Beatle hides none of his scandalised anger.
Trust McCartney to turn something mundane, like a song to croon to his sheepdog, into something sweet and irresistibly bubbly. Martha My Dear is all over the place melodically but the boyish Macca sings with such delicious relish that you can imagine Martha nuzzling lovably by his side in the end.
Everyone agrees that the Beatles were really trying to say something. Except Lennon, who decided to shut up the experts and textperts with this rocker laden with obscure clues and hints but revealing nothing. Listen to it again though and you might be tempted to spot many glimmering layers of subtext.
The best McCartney vintage pop ditty evokes vividly the domestic austerity of scratchy tunes playing from gramophones in suburban houses in the 1940s. It is a song that you would love to twist and sway to and the lines hint devilishly at the romance between bold America and nostalgic England itself.
When we first hear Lennon, he does sound tired and troubled too. Written when he was miles away from Yoko Ono in India, the languid atmosphere of this late-night ballad of solitude turns pensive and desperate as he screams his own frustrations to breaking point in unison to Harrison's guitar.
The simplicity of this ballad, shorn of satire and snark, is so effective that it will remind you of the days when the Beatles were writing those teenybopper chartbusters. At the same time, McCartney's deft guitar-work and Starr's gentle bongo drumming make it old-school material made with modern skills.
The crazed, adrenaline-pumping fervour of Birthday proves, above everything else, the Beatles were still awesome at rocking and rolling really hard. Lennon and McCartney share vocals and trade thrilling guitar riffs and Starr pummels those drums to set the stage for a real birthday party. It is throwaway but very thrilling.
Referencing Chuck Berry with cocky, unabashed chutzpah, McCartney delivers one of his smoothest and sweeping cuts, propelled with his new-found talents at both electric solos and quick-witted lyric. The song debunks all those myths about Soviet Russia being a dull place. It is the perfect opener to the album.
Lennon is compellingly unsparing as ever, even if Cry Baby Cry sounds like a famous nursery rhyme lyric played out as baroque pop. The subtly sharp words, whispered maliciously, sneer at childhood neglect and George Martin's harmonium adds to the elegiac, satirical essence. The more often you listen, the more it haunts.
One of the three essential rock songs of this album, Yer Blues is tongue-in-cheek, tersely written and thrilling all at the same time. A zesty spoof of British blues, this Lennon number features him yelling and screaming in despair while Harrison's and his guitars spit out solos that make you shiver.
Armed with nothing else than an acoustic guitar and a poetic plucking technique, Lennon pens out his most impassioned love-letter to the eponymous enigmatic woman; it is both his mother who died early and Yoko Ono. He sings his heart and speaks his mind, painting a sublime portrait of dazzling feminine beauty.
Yes, that is how funky it actually is. On repeated listenings, one cannot help but be addicted to its deliciously berserk spirit, with all the four rattling and tooting with their instruments. It is also cheerful and celebratory as Lennon eggs everybody to share his heady thrill of falling in love.
This country number from McCartney (of all people) becomes truly sensational with the individual pieces chipped in from others. Martin's honky-tonk piano tinkles with juicy relish and Lennon plays the harmonica for one last glorious time. And Macca himself jams along with zest. This is the most underrated song on the LP.
Infamously maligned for being incoherent, this epic mishmash of unearthly noises, random mutterings, explosions, hollering crowds and Geoff Emerick saying Number 9 again and again, is actually the greatest slice of avant-garde music of the 1960s. It has a twisted, disjointed rhythm and as a portrait of chaos, it unnerves like nothing else.
Once again, to brilliantly satirical effect, the Beatles turned a mere joke into a rambunctious barnstormer crammed with reckless invention and energy. This time, it was Harrison sniggering at his friend Eric Clapton's sweet tooth for exotic sweets. But others dig it for new meanings, including casual sex itself. As sumptuous as those chocolates.
Granted, the faster, breakneck cut of Revolution is undeniably more urgent and commanding but the bluesy flourishes and the shoo-be-do-wop of the slower take is a snazzier, spikier piece of music. The famous inclusion of the count me out/in ambiguity makes Lennon's message more resonant and everyone sounds very enthusiastic.
Talking of political resonance, McCartney's Blackbird is that one single moment in the album that vindicates their prescient awareness of the overwhelming reality of the era. It is a stirring and stunning message composed with affection and it is intended for a victimised, marginalised culture that needed much-needed hope in those tumultuous days.
By this time, Harrison had evolved into not just a virtuoso songwriter but also a musician with a clear-minded grasp of his material and abilities. With a haunting Indian melody woven out of his acoustic chords, Long, Long, Long is a strange and sublime ballad, penned in exhausted, almost wistful affection for God.
In India, Donovan taught Lennon a thoughtful finger-plucking method; the latter uses it along with his cool, calming voice and able support from others to craft a lush watercolour portrait of sun-kissed idyll that refuses to age even today. Dear Prudence is Lennon at his most upbeat. The pastoral flavour is reinvigorating and it also paves the way ahead for the transcendent beauty of his evergreen songs of peace and love that would dazzle everyone.
What is this bizarre, bawdy and beautiful hard rocker all about, really? Is it about kids having a wild party at a playground or is it something seedier, seamier altogether? You don't really care because McCartney's sexy, screaming voice, his barking guitar, Harrison's sleazy slide fretboard, Lennon's jagged six-string bass and Starr's blistered drumming fingers create musical mayhem that refuses to be tamed by convention. It is impossible to find a more outrageous Beatles song elsewhere.
Harrison himself was gently weeping at how the band was breaking up in the space of the recording studio. This heartrending rock song ,that oozes with almost orgasmic pain, is his angry voice of protest, disguised a heartbreak song to break all hearts.While My Guitar Gently Weeps brings together all the three guitarists and Eric Clapton to open those raw wounds and let the music wail. It is a song that cuts deep and leaves you bleeding.
What happens when you throw in a heady serving of simmering sexual desire laced with urgent psychotropic cravings and a smattering of the most deliciously abstract writing? Lennon blended them all together, built a three-act miniature rock epic and everybody was seduced. Like A Day In The Life, Happiness Is A Warm Gun straddles and struts across the disparate worlds of erotica, kitchen sink satire and psychedelic blues all in the space of less than 3 minutes. If that is not extraordinary, what else is?
No comments:
Post a Comment