Track #10: “Everybody's Got Something To Hide Except Me and My Monkey” The Beatles (1967)

Welcome to Track Chatter, where we choose a different song to discuss in depth. This entry is part of an ongoing series in which we reconsider songs by The Beatles. Can anything new be said about this band or its music? Have a look below and let us know what you think.

Aaron: Released late in 1968, The Beatles is an album whose reputation rests almost as much on its non-musical aspects as on the songs themselves. Perhaps best known as The White Album (to which we will refer to it here, for simplicity’s sake), it is the band’s only official double album, it was the first Beatles’ album released on their new Apple Records label, and it was the last of their albums to be released in both mono and stereo versions. Those are the facts. It’s also known as the album that almost broke the band up – with each member becoming more concerned with his own songs than with recording as a “band,” a unit of four guys giving their best to each number. The divisiveness that came to the surface during the recording of the album led Ringo to quit the band temporarily (because of this departure, Paul plays drums on “Dear Prudence” and, maybe, “Back in the U.S.S.R.”). Our purposes here are to talk more about the songs than the biographies, but it is worth noting that after ten years of being together nearly constantly and five years of being the biggest band in the world, the strain was starting to show and such powerful egos in such close proximity were starting to cause caustic rather than inspirational sparks to fire.

One aspect of personality that does play an important role, however – in terms of both the album itself and this week’s track, “Everybody’s Got Something To Hide Except for Me and My Monkey” – is the re-emergence of John Lennon as a powerful creative force within the band. Over the previous three albums, John had certainly contributed key tracks, but it had been Paul who was in many ways the driving force behind the band’s sound and development. On The White Album, John’s presence is powerful, and his ability to present a unity of personality within a widely diverse group of songs is almost staggering. I think an argument could be made that it’s on The White Album that John Lennon first becomes “John Lennon,” the post-Beatle who can write songs of savage ferocity or surreal humor, or simple reflections on love and daily life, without ever seeming like he’s trying on different sounds just for the sake of it.

Coming halfway through side three, “. . . Me and My Monkey” is one of Lennon’s most exuberant, all-out rockers from throughout his Beatles’ career. What do you think, Lew . . . is it fair to call The White Album more of a Lennon album than the previous few albums? And how does this track fit into (or undermine?) that contention?

Lew: I think John Lennon's songwriting is definitely the most focused work on The White Album, and I would strongly agree with your statement that The White Album marks the emergence of John Lennon the solo artist. He really doesn't sound like he’s writing from within The Beatles. I think The Beatles post-Rubber Soul albums, great as they are, operate in a lot of respects from a position of self-consciousness – that is to say, they were trying to make albums that they thought The Beatles should make (or thought that people thought The Beatles should make), and writing songs accordingly. I don’t think many of the John Lennon songs on The White Album have that feel at all, with the obvious exception of “Glass Onion,” which can probably be seen as a sort of final, overt kiss-off to those expectations. But, on the other hand, I think a track like “Everybody’s Got Something To Hide Except for Me and My Monkey” is casting off that sense of expectation deliberately in the sense that it simply doesn't acknowledge them. As opposed to being overtly philosophical, “Everybody’s Got Something To Hide Except for Me and My Monkey,” becomes philosophical in its simplicity and sense of rocking, escapist fun. The higher you fly, the deeper you go, as it were.

Aaron: Interesting take. I see where you’re coming from with what you say about the band’s self-consciousness, but I wonder if there wasn’t more going on than that. I think they were pretty much caught up in whatever it was or whatever it meant to be “THE BEATLES,” and so on one level I imagine there was some pressure to live up to that. On the other hand though, it seems like at some point, their innate sense of playfulness started manifesting itself in a kind of rebellious urge to confound expectations, to push away from what it meant to be The Beatles, and even, at some points, to undermine those expectations. I’m thinking of all that chatter that starts to appear on the albums where they poke fun at themselves and the song they’ve just played. On top of all that was their obvious love of experimentation, which we’ve discussed several times before. From Rubber Soul (or even Help!) onwards, they seem to have been more willing to follow those different strains in their musical personalities and, perhaps, by the time of The White Album, their personalities had diverged to the extent that those experiments were more personally motivated than band motivated. I think what that meant for Lennon was that, influenced by Yoko, he wanted to experiment – so came songs like the multi-form “Happiness is a Warm Gun” or the musique concrete of “Revolution 9.” But I also think he just really wanted to rock out, for the first time in a long time. So comes the hard blues of “Yer Blues” and the wonderful exuberance of “Everybody’s Got Something To Hide Except for Me and My Monkey.”

Speaking of which . . . what makes the song so damned much fun?

Lew: I see what you mean when you say that the band had been pushing against whatever expectation they felt to be The Beatles. I definitely would not make the argument that elements of Revolver, Sgt. Pepper and so on weren’t meant to challenge their listeners. On the other hand, I think that the playfulness you mentioned is part of the presentation. I think there was a sense of letting the audience in on a joke – “Haha! We’re The Beatles and we're challenging your expectations. Isn’t it fun and whimsical?” – whereas, on “Glass Onion,” John is basically saying, “you were never in on the joke, stop assuming you know anything about me.” Anyway, I don’t mean to bog down our discussion of a great song, since that is our ostensible purpose.

So, what does make EGSTHEMAMM (haha!) such a fun song?  Well, first of all it’s got a fantastic hook. Or, more properly, it’s got several of them – at least one memorable guitar part, and pretty much every vocal part in the song. Not only that, the guitar has a great overdriven sound of the kind that would be right at home on a Led Zeppelin or AC/DC album. Maybe that’s a bit of a broad overview, though – what makes the song fun for you?

Aaron: Well, the hooks are a big part of it. From the way the opening groove quickly switches pace to something much more frantic – with that relentless ride cymbal and Lennon crying out “come on, come on” – through the ending fade out that seems to come too soon, the song is exhilarating in its exhortations to . . . well, whatever it is the song’s really exhorting us to do. I like the guitar riff over the verse and the way it seems just . . . almost . . . not quite out of time with the drums. I love the way the drumbeat seems tied to the ride cymbal, but also not. And I love the way Lennon sings the whole thing just one step down from a shout. It gives the whole song a chaotic vibe – it’s teetering on tipping over into a garbled mess, but the band keeps hold of the reins and never lets it tumble. Which is really interesting because the lyrics, in a way, are about finding a sort of peace with the world. While they’re rooted in The Beatles’ trip to India, they also have a zen-like quality to them (“the deeper you go, the higher you fly”). So in a sense the song becomes a frantic, exuberant celebration of calmness and clarity. Even though the lyrical playfulness is much simpler than it was on “Walrus” (perhaps because of this), I find it more exciting. And as much as I really like The Beatles, this is one of their few songs that make me want to get up and do, go, run, jump, fly . . . even more so than most of the wild songs of their early years.

And I agree about the guitar sound. While the band had been pushing the performance they could get out of their and Abbey Road’s equipment, it seems like it’s really on The White Album that they find the sound of “modern” rock, at least as it would be played up through the punk years or so. And it’s mostly on Lennon’s songs where the drive for that sound can be noticed. Do you think that’s accurate?

Lew: I think you’re accurate on all counts – your analysis of the song from the bottom up is actually quite a bit better than the way I had gotten around to thinking of it, so thanks for bringing some clarity to the discussion. When I was listening to it recently, I was thinking about that guitar part during the verse. It is definitely a cool syncopation. I see what you mean about it sounding almost out of time with the drums – the interaction between the guitar and the ride cymbal is very close to chaos. Of course, that’s part of what makes the song so great, because when it drops into the chorus (pre-chorus?), everything suddenly locks together. It’s a great juxtaposition, in which each part really justifies the other – much like the contrast between the lyrics and the way John sings the song that you pointed out. One of the most impressive things about the lyrics, for me, is how minimal they are. There really aren't more than a few phrases in the song, but between the beat and the vocal take, everything seems to take on a much greater significance. It’s almost a disservice to the song to call it “evocative,” because what it evokes really precludes that kind of vocabulary for me, but it is one of those songs that reminds me of why parents used to be concerned about their kids listening to rock music – a lot of things seem possible for the two and a half minutes that you’re listening to it.

Aaron: I love that – “a lot of things seem possible for the two and a half minutes that you’re listening to it” – what a great way to describe what a good pop song should do! And it links up with another thing I love about the song, which is how effortless it seems, even though the band apparently rehearsed it for several days before landing on a take that they liked. The lyrics play a large part in that, and it goes back to what I was trying to get at before about the emergence of “Lennon” (or, as some would have it, simply the re-emergence of John Lennon) – he’s not trying so hard here. He’s a rocker, a psychedelic guru, a cynic, a proponent of some sort of peaceful mysticism, a political commentator, the lover of Yoko Ono, and so much more. These aspects of his personality will continue to clash in his music throughout the early ‘70s, but at the same time he seems more at peace with the contradictions, more willing to follow the individual muse of each particular song wherever it will take him. So on The White Album, even though the subject matter and form of his songs are quite diverse, they all sound organic and of a whole. And in some way, the lyrics of “ . . . Me and My Monkey” seem to be commenting on that sense of ease, like, it really does seem that either he’s nothing left to hide, or he’s just plain tired of hiding whatever it is. It’s completely untrue for his personal life, of course, but perhaps it’s an accurate assessment of his artistic mind for much of the late ‘60s and early ‘70s.

 

Lew: I think you’re right in saying that Lennon is much more at peace here, artistically speaking, than he is in earlier work. Of course, as you’ve also pointed out, his personal life was in a comparative state of upheaval. As a songwriter, however, he seems to have reached a point where he's somewhat more comfortable. I want to qualify “comfortable” as being different from “complacent” – I don't mean to imply that he was coasting on past accomplishments. But, I think we're seeing him, starting with The White Album, as someone who has a certain level of artistic confidence and trust for his instinctive decisions. That kind of confidence can cut both ways, but in this case, it makes for a great pop/rock song.

Aaron: And with that, we’ll leave off and let our readers weigh in with anything they might have to say about “Me and My Monkey,” The White Album, Lennon’s evolution as an artist, or anything else you all might want to add.

Coming Next: We’ve decided to dedicate two weeks to The White Album while shaving YellowSubmarine out of the mix. YS is not necessarily a bad album – and it includes the excellent “Hey Bulldog,” which we think fits nicely with the above conversation – but while it is considered a Beatles’ album proper, it is also made up of half instrumentals and several reissues, so it can’t really be considered a fully formed artistic statement like the rest of the band’s albums.

So next time around, we’ll finally make a visit with Ringo, then we’ve got Abbey Road and Let it Be and that’ll see us wind down the first phase of Track Chatter.

Track #9: “I Am the Walrus” Magical Mystery Tour (1967)

Welcome to Track Chatter, where we choose a different song to discuss in depth. This entry is part of an ongoing series in which we reconsider songs by The Beatles. Can anything new be said about this band or its music? Have a look below and let us know what you think.

Lew: In late 1967, The Beatles followed Sgt. Pepper’s with Magical Mystery Tour. Magical Mystery Tour was a concept, generally thought to have been initiated by Paul McCartney, which produced a promotional film and a group of songs that functioned as material for the score and musical performance interludes contained within the film, as well as the content of the album by the same name. The Beatles began work on the project shortly after the death of their longtime manager, Brian Epstein, during which time Paul became increasingly active as the band’s leader and de facto manager. Needless to say, it was a time of turmoil for the band.

The film itself was a massive critical failure, in terms of its reception by the press and the public. It’s worth noting that a portion of the public’s initial negative response may be attributable to the fact that Magical Mystery Tour was filmed in color, but broadcast on BBC TV in black and white, which robbed some of its intended visual impact. Nevertheless, I think it’s also viable to say that the Magical Mystery Tour project as a whole began to reveal some weaknesses within The Beatles’ organization, greatly exacerbated by the loss of Epstein’s leadership and business savvy, which were affecting their creative output.

However poorly the film was received, the album Magical Mystery Tour contains some definite classics. The title track, “Fool On the Hill,” “I Am The Walrus,” and “Hello Goodbye” among others, are fascinating and relatively unique pieces of songwriting within The Beatles catalogue. For this entry, we’ll be discussing my personal favorite of the bunch, “I Am the Walrus.” “I Am the Walrus” sees John Lennon at his most abstract, tossing images and references about with relative abandon. If “She Said She Said” can be described as expressionist, the term is even more apt here. While “I Am the Walrus” is generally characterized as psychedelia, the lyrics contain a cynicism or aggression that’s relatively unusual in the psychedelic music of the era. Aaron, we’ll be talking about the arrangement and production as we get further on, but I’d like to start by talking about the lyrics. It’s easy to write them off as a post-modern pastiche of images; I’m wondering if you find any continuity within them, or if you even think that there’s a need for that? 

Aaron: Before I answer your question, I’d just like to mention that Magical Mystery Tour also contains two songs – “Strawberry Fields Forever” and “Penny Lane” – that were previously released as part of a double-A-side single in February of 1967. They were the first songs recorded during what would become the Sgt. Pepper’s sessions, but were released as singles under record company pressure. Because of long-standing UK tradition, they could not be released on the next album (Sgt. Pepper’s) so were included on its follow-up, Magical Mystery Tour. I only mention this because in working on this project, I’ve come to the conclusion that “Penny Lane” is a nearly perfect Beatles song in almost every way conceivable (do I exaggerate?) and would like to urge everybody reading to revisit the song, especially if you haven’t considered it in a while.

But back to “I Am the Walrus.” Well, I don’t think the lyrics bear a close reading on our part because a lot of that would consist more of reading into rather than analyzing. The song is one of the rare examples in The Beatles’ catalogue of lyrics completely devoid of any clear narrative or point. “She Said She Said” was obscure and expressionist, to be sure, but at least one could say, well, there’s this girl, right, and she’s talkin about death and all, and, well, it gets the singer to thinking about when he was a boy and all that. Whereas, with “I Am the Walrus,” it’s very difficult to point to the song and say that it is about anything. Having said that, for the first time in this series, I think the lyrics bear reprinting in full (if that’s all right with you, Lew). Here they are:

I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together.
See how they run like pigs from a gun, see how they fly.
I'm crying.

Sitting on a cornflake, waiting for the van to come.
Corporation tee-shirt, stupid bloody Tuesday.
Man, you been a naughty boy, you let your face grow long.
I am the eggman, they are the eggmen.
I am the walrus, goo goo g'joob.

Mister City Policeman sitting
Pretty little policemen in a row.
See how they fly like Lucy in the Sky, see how they run.
I'm crying, I'm crying.
I'm crying, I'm crying.

Yellow matter custard, dripping from a dead dog's eye.
Crabalocker fishwife, pornographic priestess,
Boy, you been a naughty girl you let your knickers down.
I am the eggman, they are the eggmen.
I am the walrus, goo goo g'joob.

Sitting in an English garden waiting for the sun.
If the sun don't come, you get a tan
From standing in the English rain.
I am the eggman, they are the eggmen.
I am the walrus, goo goo g'joob g'goo goo g'joob.

Expert textpert choking smokers,
Don't you thing the joker laughs at you?
See how they smile like pigs in a sty,
See how they snied.
I'm crying.

Semolina pilchard, climbing up the Eiffel Tower.
Elementary penguin singing Hari Krishna.
Man, you should have seen them kicking Edgar Allan Poe.
I am the eggman, they are the eggmen.
I am the walrus, goo goo g'joob g'goo goo g'joob.
Goo goo g'joob g'goo goo g'joob g'goo... (etc.)

As a coherent statement, they don’t seem to make much sense on the surface, and maybe they don’t (there are plenty of web sites out there speculating on the song’s many possible meanings, for those interested). But I don’t think they’re as random as they might seem at first. As far as I’ve been able to tell, Lennon wrote the majority of the song’s music in one, day-long session. The lyrics, on the other hand, he worked on for weeks. That alone belies the notion that they are some sort of stream of consciousness overflow of spontaneous feeling. It’s worth noting the conflux of events in Lennon’s life that surround the song’s writing. As you mentioned above, Lew, this came soon after Brian Epstein’s death – in fact, it’s generally accepted that “I Am the Walrus” was the first new song completed after his death – and Lennon was arguably closer to Epstein than were any of the other Beatles. Furthermore, Lennon was nearing the end of his two-year LSD binge, and he was also becoming more attuned to the political face that the counterculture was taking in the UK and America. The result is a collection of lyrics that are at once cynical and despondent, but also quite playfully clever with a touch of the wit that early-Beatles Lennon had more regularly exhibited.

I’ll point to specific examples in a moment, but do you think I’ve accurately captured the tone here Lew? Do you have any thoughts about what Lennon is aiming at here?

Lew: I’m glad you pointed out that “Strawberry Fields Forever” and “Penny Lane” are on Magical Mystery Tour. I’d agree that they're both great, and fairly important Beatles songs. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that I’d have been nearly as happy to discuss either of them as “I Am the Walrus.” Nevertheless, here we are.

In terms of our discussion about the lyrics (incidentally, thanks for including them), I think that your assessment of them as cynical or despondent, but also playful, is quite apt. The idea that the music was written quickly, while the lyrics were drawn out over a period of time is believable to me, because the images and references seem deliberate, if disjointed. If anything, the disjointedness lends itself to the idea that Lennon took the lyrics as far as he could on successive occasions, only to return later with a fresh perspective. On the other hand, I agree that these lyrics are not random at all - however one might like to interpret them, I would argue that they convey a feeling that's more specific than the pastiche of images might suggest.

I don't want to abandon our discussion of the lyrics, but I thought it might be worthwhile to also begin to think about the music and production. “I Am the Walrus” is definitely an example of George Martin at his best. In fact, I might go so far as to say it’s the Beatles song that most successfully blends the sound of the actual band playing with a very smartly written orchestral arrangement. I'm curious about your thoughts on that, but don’t let me derail any thoughts you might still be having about the language.

Aaron: Just to hop back to the lyrics a little bit, I would like to say a few brief things about why I think they work so well. As I mentioned above, Lennon was coming to the end of his big acid bender and was sort of re-engaging with the world, but doing so through the prism of still doing lots of acid as well as having begun a deeper sort of spiritual investigation – something he’d fight and return to for much of the next few years. The result in his lyrics, on the one hand, seems to be a move away from the type of studied introspection that one finds in “Tomorrow Never Knows,” “A Day in the Life,” and even “She Said She Said,” which uses an external experience as an avenue for internal exploration. On the other hand, John had always had a penchant for the absurd and surreal, even, apparently, dating back to his secondary school days. It seems that the type of “ego cleansing” he experienced on acid allowed him to tap into that facet of his personality without worrying about writing the “perfect” song (which was a worry of his earlier days in the Beatles). So, with “I Am the Walrus,” we seem to be getting a very surreal and cynical Lennon pointing his guns at “society” in a very biting but humorous manner.

More specifically, he seems to be taking aim at many British institutions directly (one might argue they’re as “Western” as they are “British”) – the police, corporations, schools and school teachers – as well as what he seems to have considered poseurs and hipsters. The juxtaposition of these things with nonsense lines and nursery rhymes only heightens the sense of absurdity. And this all comes after Lennon’s opening lines that would seem, on first glance, to be hinting towards some kind of harmony or oneness (The Beatles had already begun meeting the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, while not yet having mate the trip with him to India). Whether by all those “he” and “we” pronouns he means only a select group (those outside “straight” society) or whether Lennon’s own mystical pretensions are also up for mockery seem both to be possibilities. If Lewis Carroll could make fun of himself, then so can John Lennon.

To zero in on one particular set of lyrics, I’d have to say that the lines that really bring home the song’s layers of possible meaning come during the breakdown in the middle:

Sitting in an English garden, waiting for the sun.

If the sun don’t come, you get a tan

From standing in the English rain.

 I love the way the first line starts off with a strong sense of hope. At the same time, it paints such a lovely image. After all the dissonance of the previous lyrics about sitting on cornflakes and dead dogs’ eyes, the calm of the garden seems to be something of an eye in the storm. But it doesn’t last because Lennon follows it up with such a wonderful little dig – it’s as if he’s mocking everything about the notion of the British stiff upper lip. All those people running around pretending that things will be all right when, clearly, they won’t. And the hope of the opening line dissipates in the grey English rain.

I think the music even echoes that sentiment somewhat. The music behind the first line sounds as gentle and sweet as the words themselves, but on the “if” there seems to be a change in key or tempo or both. Is that right, Lew? Perhaps on that we can jump back into talking about (what I agree) is the song’s excellent composition and orchestration.

Lew: You are absolutely right to identify the change that's taking place between “sitting in and English garden” and “if the sun don’t come” – the chord progression that’s happening under the first line of what I think we can call a sort of bridge, although similar to what has been happening, is something of a departure from the progressions that have been established up to that point. Obviously, the dynamics change as well – your observation that it feels like the “eye of the storm” seems particularly apt, as the feel of the music seems to break completely from the very driving rhythmic feel that the song maintains during the verses and choruses. At the line “if the sun don't come,” the rhythm resumes, and the chord progression becomes the turnaround, which transitions into the chorus.

To go back into the lyrics for a second, one thing that I found particularly striking in your most recent response was the discussion of the way pronouns are functioning in the song. Like you, I’m curious about the way the opening lines of the song seem to imply a unity. I’d point out the rhythm of the vocal part – Lennon’s delivery of the first two lines (“I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together”) is very rhythmic, with accents falling on all of the beats and being strongest on the “2” and “4” beats of the first two measures after the vocal enters. I started off hearing it as a rap, but eventually started thinking about a basic drum beat with the bass drum playing 8th notes on beats one and three, and the snare hitting quarter notes on two and four. Either way, all of the accents in those two lines are pronouns until the last beat of the second measure where “all” falls on the fourth beat and “together” bleeds into the first beat of the next measure. All of that analysis (which may or may not be useful to think about) aside, the feeling I get from the rhythm and delivery of that section of the verse reminds me of a drinking song that should be sung by a group of people. After that point, the rhythm becomes more syncopated and less pronounced in outlining of the beat specifically, but to my mind, it creates a feeling of conversation in which Lennon is pointing out a variety of images to a group of people, which the further use of pronouns in the song seems to support. Admittedly, that’s a highly subjective read on things, but it’s something that occurred to me.

Aaron: Well, the song is somewhat frustrating in that its imagery and lack of linearity both make any reading impossible while also making nearly any interpretation valid (if, that is, it’s at least somewhat grounded in the text, the cultural and historical context, etc.). That was partly Lennon’s intention, I guess. Supposedly, he got a letter from a pupil at his former school who said he was studying Beatles’ lyrics in class. Lennon’s finding this ludicrous was a major impetus behind the writing of this song – interpret this!

So in a sense, I don’t know that your “subjective” reading is any more or less valid than any other reading (I’m not sure if that’s a completely good thing, mind you, but that is an element of surrealism, after all, isn’t it?). In any case, the pronouns are important and I’m glad you highlighted how they fall rhythmically. I do think the opening lines work as something like an invocation, which is highly important, because throughout the rest of the song I think Lennon is playing with the idea of who the “we” are in “we are all together.” That playfulness, I think, is what saves the song from being from being sort of derivatively surreal and allows it to be more authentic. The song’s playfulness and anger and cynicism collide in a way that opens up the text in more than just its somewhat random lyrical content. That gives it an emotional heft that I, for one, don’t find in a lot of other 60’s-era stabs at pop surrealism.

I fear, however, that I’m descending a bit into Lit Crit 101, so I’ll step back from that and ask if there’s anything else you want to say about the lyrics, music, or the dialogue between them.

Lew: Well, we haven’t really talked much about the music, and there are a few things worth mentioning about it. I guess the thing that’s most striking about it (to me) is the orchestration. Obviously, the Beatles used orchestral arrangements to great effect in a number of places - certainly in “Yesterday” as we’ve previously discussed, but also in “A Day in the Life,” “She's Leaving Home,” and so on. I think that “A Day in the Life” was a turning point, in that it was able to successfully marry the orchestral arrangement to the context of a rock song as a coloration, rather than allowing it to become the primary instrumental force in the song, in the way that I think it does in “Yesterday” and “She's Leaving Home.” Having said that, I think that “I Am the Walrus” develops the concept of orchestra as one part of an ensemble even more successfully. The melodies provided by the orchestra are fantastic, and I certainly wouldn’t say that they’re superfluous, but you can hear the song being played without them by straight “rock instrumentation” (if that’s a phrase that’s in any way meaningful). By contrast, I can’t immediately picture the original version of “Yesterday” being played that way.

Aaron: Great point, Lew. You’ve managed to put your finger on one of the things that make the Beatles such a good band, one of the things that continues to make them vital. They were supremely confident in their ability to integrate new areas of expression into their existing sound. I think that’s just as true of their early music wherein skiffle beats and Little Richard are seamlessly blended, as well as of a song like “I Am the Walrus” wherein psychedelic rock, surrealism, and orchestration are blended so organically. And, to return to at topic of some of our earlier posts, they do this in such a way that, really, we can apply the term “Beatlesque” to a song like “She’s a Woman” just as readily as we do to “I Am the Walrus.”

Coming Next: John really shakes off the cobwebs, with a little help from a Monkey.

Coming Soon: While continuing with our Beatles series, we'll be introducing a new feature here at Track Chatter, one that we hope you'll get a kick out of. Stay tuned!

Congratulations: to Lew and Jenna on the recent birth of a beautiful, healthy baby boy!

Track #8: “Fixing a Hole” Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band (1967)

Welcome to Track Chatter, where we choose a different song to discuss in depth. This entry is part of an ongoing series in which we reconsider songs by The Beatles. Can anything new be said about this band or its music? Have a look below and let us know what you think.

Aaron: Well, what can one say about the record that’s had everything said about it? Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, released in the early summer of 1967 (the “Summer of Love”), has been praised nearly continuously in the almost forty-five years since its release. It spent hundreds of weeks on both the UK and US album charts and was the first rock album to win the Best Album Grammy. Jimi Hendrix famously played cover versions of the title track in London clubs just days after its release (and with some of The Beatles in the audience). It’s been credited with fully entrenching the concept of the “album” – as a unity rather than a collection of singles – as well as with inventing (or perfecting) the concept album. It drove Brian Wilson mad. And while its position as the number one, no doubt, best album of all time has naturally waxed and waned with the ever-changing trends of rock music criticism and fandom, it has never fallen out of favor or ceased to be considered as anything other than a stellar rock and roll album. It may come as no surprise that Rolling Stone continues to proclaim it the greatest album of all time, but even the more discerning hipster types at Pitchfork awarded it a rare 10 out 10 in a recent reconsideration.

So, what indeed can one say? Well, it’s not quite true that Sgt. Pepper’s was the first “proper” album – an entity conceived as a whole piece rather than a collection of parts. Like nearly all artistic developments, the coming of the unified album happened over time – a very brief time in this case, to be sure. It’s well accepted that at least since Frank Sinatra’s In the Wee Small Hours (1955), artists had been releasing albums based around unifying ideas and musical themes with a considered and purposeful sequencing of tracks. The Beatles themselves had been moving in this direction since Rubber Soul (and arguably since Help!), and the influence of The Beach Boys’ Pet Sounds (1966) on Sgt. Pepper’s is well known. However, as was often the case with The Beatles, the album harnessed the fullness of their songwriting prowess, their experimental drive, their adeptness in the studio (still using four-track recording as EMI was unwilling to equip Abby Road studios with eight-track mixing decks until later in 1967), and lots of happy accidents to make something more than the sum of its parts. The result is thus, perhaps, the first album that really feels like an album in the modern sense. Songs bleed into one another. Varispeeding allowed them to modify pitches so that the beginnings and endings of songs could be more seamlessly blended. Automatic double tracking and George Martin’s (and his engineers’) incredibly facility with “bouncing” tracks meant that they could achieve an amazing depth of sound wherein multiple tracks from a variety of sources – band and non-band alike – could be clearly discerned by even the unpracticed ear. And for reasons that are often difficult to pinpoint, the album’s lyrics and themes resonated with the zeitgeist in ways that have rarely been achieved – before or since – by one forty minute rock album.

Whether Sgt. Pepper’s is the “best album of all time” is, however, a pretty subjective claim. There are so many matrices by which to measure such a distinction (sales? awards? influence? – and just how does one measure something as intangible as “influence”?), and so many different types of albums, that one’s preference for such a title will invariably come down to questions of taste. And there are certainly those who find Sgt. Pepper’s boring, uninspired, overplayed, hackneyed, or even simple. However, within the medium of rock music, the claim simply cannot be made that Sgt. Pepper’s is “bad.” From the opening sound effect of a mulling audience and the tuning of a first violin that breaks into one of the band’s most rocking numbers to the closing chord of their most celebrated song, the album sparkles with energy, creativity, and clear ideas executed with stellar musicianship and technological acuity. In short, Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band is a fucking awesome album.

We struggled with the question of which track to choose and long considered tackling “A Day in the Life.” The album closer is generally considered the pinnacle of the Lennon/McCartney songwriting tandem as well as the crowning achievement of The Beatles/George Martin recording relationship. And as we had already broken our “lesser-known-tracks” rule with “Yesterday,” we thought, why not do so again. However, in the end we decided that, much like Sgt. Pepper’s itself, “A Day in the Life” has simply been discussed too much. Which track, if any, however, can be considered lesser known from this album? All the songs regularly feature on classic rock radio; they show up in movie soundtracks, on mix tapes (mix tapes?), and as cover versions by other bands. In the end, we decided to go with “Fixing a Hole,” in part because it’s one of the less assuming songs on an album full of mind blowers. Or is it? What do you think, Lew? Does “Fixing a Hole” hold its own with the other heavy hitters on Sgt. Pepper’s?

Lew: I feel like I'm always answering “yes” to the question you pose me in your intros, but I'm going to say it again. I do think that “Fixing A Hole” holds it own on Sgt. Pepper's. I don't think that it’s the crowning musical achievement that “A Day In The Life” is, but I would also say that a good deal of its strength as a composition lies exactly in its unassuming nature. Without digressing about “A Day In The Life” too much, I’ll just say that although it’s obviously a really fantastic song, regardless of arrangement, the production is a huge part of its impact. The acoustic guitar that bridges into the piano to introduce the first verse, the orchestral parts, the reverb on Lennon’s voice coming out of the bridge, and the overdubbed grand pianos on the last chord of the song (among other things) all serve to elevate the composition to something much more than a standard rock song. There’s a lot to listen to, pretty much all the time. By contrast, “Fixing A Hole” is not pointing toward the same goal – it's not as evidently uncomfortable with the restraints of what could be said in a three-plus minute song or more standard production, but the craftsmanship is superb (we’ll talk more about the music as the discussion progresses, I’m sure) and the lyrics do a great job of blending the particular and the universal, so to speak. I think it’s a quiet mind-blower, to borrow your term. It’s almost sneaky. What do you think of it?

Aaron: Before I answer that question, I’d also like to say a word or two about other tracks on the album. By mind-blower, I am, of course, referring to the album’s well-known highlights: “A Day in the Life” to be sure, but also the title track (and its reprise), “A Little Help from my Friends,” and “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.” In addition to those hits, I’d probably throw in “Being for the Benefit of Mr. Kite!” and “Good Morning,” mainly because (in addition to being fascinating songs), their production quality really makes  them album showcases. And I’d also add Harrison’s “Within You Without You.” It’s a song that I didn’t like much as a child (it frightened me a bit, to be honest), but it’s the song where we see George starting to shed his long-held cynicism and really embrace the Eastern values and concepts that he’d been exploring for the previous few years. It’s also, maybe, the most sincere song on the entire album (Ian MacDonald calls it “central to the outlook of Sgt. Pepper”). “When I’m Sixty-Four” may be the album’s biggest throwaway number, yet it remains one of its best-known tracks. It’s not a mind-blower by any stretch of the term, but it is one of the most successful songs on the album. Finally, it’s worth mentioning “She’s Leaving Home,” which, as far as I can tell, was long considered the album’s second key track (after “A Day in the Life”). This mainly seems to have been because of its showcase as a Lennon/McCartney number, its production values, and its oddly ambiguous take on traditional values versus the new, freer thinking ideals of the baby boomers. It’s a beautiful song, but may be the one song, perhaps, that I find doesn’t really hold up well. I do like the song, but in today’s respect, it seems a bit maudlin in the way it so obviously comments on its era’s generation gap in a way that seems so innocent as almost to be hokey today.

“Fixing a Hole,” is a different kettle of fish from most of those songs. It features very little in the way of blatant studio trickery (aside from its brilliant multi-tracking), and its lyrics hint not towards the Lennonist absurdity of “Mr. Kite” or “Lucy,” nor towards the generational touchstones of “With a Little Help from my Friends,” “She’s Leaving Home,” or “Within You Without You.” In fact, it seems to be a song, on first listen, celebrating the mundane. And its form and musicality seems to support that (again, at first), with its odd harpsichord intro and then its fairly standard verse chorus verse format (and it hardly rocks out like the title track, “Good Morning,” or even “Lovely Rita” do). But I love that you describe it as “sneaky,” which I think is such an apt term for it. And I’d argue that sneakiness is anchored in what you call the song’s “blending of the particular and the universal.” Do you think you could say a bit more about what you mean by that?

Lew: When I mentioned “the blending of the particular and the universal” (with apologies to Hegel) in “Fixing A Hole,” what I was trying to get at was a kind of juxtaposition that the song has always suggested to me. On one hand, the narrator is describing, to borrow your wording, a mundane activity of home repair (“fixing a hole where the rain gets in”). At the same time, on the other side of that activity is whatever the leak in the narrator's roof has interrupted (“and stops my mind from wandering”); his wandering mind and all that is suggested by that phrase, which is arguably quite a lot. My sense, which could be limited to my own impressions, has always been that he’s alluding to some type of meditation and that there’s a cosmic element to it that supersedes what the narrator sees as the pettiness of other people (who don’t get in his door). To my mind, the entire song is about trying to create an insular, controllable environment and also a letting go of the pressures and obligations of society. It suggests all sorts of things, from Buddhism to an alienation from the community of other people and, ultimately, existentialism. So, for me, it’s very sneaky, because it appears unassuming, but in another way, can be seen as tackling some very difficult philosophical questions.

Aaron: Well said. I’ve always wondered just exactly “where” his mind was wandering. As a child I thought of it just as daydreaming and there have been times later in my life when I thought meditation or just getting high. I think it might be any of those. McCartney and the rest of the band were in the midst of their experimentation with LSD at the time and still smoking marijuana heavily, and they were also exploring mediation and other aspects of Eastern religions. And daydreaming plays a vital role in songwriting. So I’m not so sure McCartney would have seen the three situations (and others are possible) as being significantly different.

What’s interesting, and why I like your use of “sneaky,” is the way the song wants to create the space for all those activities – the space where he’ll go when his mind is wandering – which is also a space that, as you say, keeps the “silly people” from getting past his door. If we put the song within its cultural and historical context (Summer of Love, burgeoning hippie movement, drug culture, exploration of Eastern religion and other non-Western modes of thinking), then, on the one hand, it seems to be celebrating the moment. Give in to your inner thoughts, let your mind wander, the “turn on, tune in” bits of Leary’s mantra. On the other hand, the desire to keep out the rabble, or to keep out the silly people, or to keep out people in general seems pretty anti-social. It certainly doesn’t celebrate anything like a communal vibe. Now, the “silly people” might be interpreted as being representatives of “the man” or of consumer society, straight society. But from what I’ve read, McCartney got the idea for the lyric from the fans who used to loiter outside his house and Abby Road studio hoping for a glimpse of the band. So in that sense, the “silly people” are also, on one level, McCartney’s peers – at least generationally speaking. In that sense, the song celebrates a very literal interpretation of the “drop out” bit of Leary.

I don’t think the song is either pro- or anti- the spirit of ’67. I think it’s both at the same time (which is best expressed in the ambiguity of the “it really doesn’t matter if I’m wrong I’m right . . .” lyric) – and in that sense, I think it shares a lot with other songs on the album that look for something like “universal consciousness” in acts of the mundane or even non-special, with songs about meter maids, reading newspapers, growing up, and getting old. Aside from Harrison’s “Within You Without You,” and maybe “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds,” there’s not a song, really, that on its surface says “prepare to have your mind blown by how deep this thing is.” Even “A Day in the Life,” in all its grandeur, is about reading newspaper stories and spending the day at work. And yet, through their celebration of daily ritual, of the ordinary, these songs do tap into something more universal and (yeesh) cosmic. And “Fixing a Hole,” at least on the level of its lyrics, might do it as well as any of them. Any thoughts about the music – does it mirror or contribute to the sense of sneakiness in anyway? (And any thoughts about that opening keyboard bit?)

Lew: That is a great analysis of where “Fixing A Hole” is situated in relation to the cultural movement of the late 1960’s. For the most part, I’ll leave what you said to speak for itself; however, I will add that I think that you’re absolutely right to identify a large of the Sgt. Pepper’s project as an act of finding the universal within the mundane. I don’t know that The Beatles were the first to do that in pop music, but they certainly did it on a broader scale than it had been done up to that point. That is one of the things that makes Sgt. Pepper’s so important for me, and it’s the reason why I still think of it as possibly the most cohesive Beatles album. The finding of beauty or tragedy within mundane circumstances is something that I think largely appears for the first time in 20^th-century art, and Sgt. Pepper’s is as much a participant in that transformation as any of the literature or visual art of its time.  Also, needless to say, Sgt. Pepper’s set the stage for a number of English chamber pop albums that celebrated and dissected traditional English values and social conventions – I’m thinking of The Kinks’ The Kinks Are the Village Green Preservation Society and The Zombies’ Odessey and Oracle, but I don’t doubt that there are other strong examples.

Musically speaking, there are a few things about “Fixing a Hole” that I find quite sneaky – it’s probably the most harmonically complex song that we’ve discussed in this series. The harpsichord intro is an interesting touch - it strikes me as a sort of fanfare, which also establishes the tonal center of the song. I love the transition from the harpsichord to the verse, with Ringo clicking off the count before the vocal starts. What I really like about the song, which was fairly shocking to me at the time that I first learned it, is this chord progression under the verse, which starts on an F major chord (F, A, C), moves to C aug (C, E, Ab - the V or dominant chord in a slightly altered form) and uses that turnaround as a pivot to land on an F minor 7 (F, Ab, C, Eb), which moves to an F minor 6 (F, Ab, C, D), Bb major (Bb, D, F), F minor 7, and then back to Bb major to conclude the phrase. What’s most interesting about that, to me, is the way the chords are inverted during the verse to create a descending line – by placing the notes F, E, Eb, and D in the bass of the first four chords, it creates a chromatic movement from one chord to the next, which enables the listener to hear the key change from F major at the top of the phrase, to F minor shortly thereafter, as being completely natural and as something that your ear is pulled toward. And, of course, Paul’s great melody on top of that which treats it all like it’s no big thing, is very helpful for the listener as well. Needless to say, I find the whole thing highly sneaky, and generally brilliant.

Aaron: Wow, I never would have guessed that there was so much complexity at the heart of this song. As much as I’ve always liked it, it can come across almost as having been tossed off (which is part of its charm for me), but that seems to be belied by how much thought McCartney and Martin must have put into its composition and recording.  I like the way you describe how it “enables” the listener to hear the song in a particular way. I think the track’s recording works to that end as well. It doesn’t exhibit the production fireworks of some of the other Sgt. Pepper’s tracks, but attention was clearly paid not only to how the song was recorded in a general sense, but (or so it seems to me) how its recording emphasized certain characteristics of its composition. I particularly like the way Ringo’s drums are recorded (such a long way from the early albums) so as to catch his beat, which acts as the song’s steady hand, but which is also oddly lackadaisical (matching, perhaps unintentionally, the song’s content). I like the judicious use of double tracking on Paul’s vocal track, the way the “ooohs” come in for the second pass at the “really doesn’t matter if I’m wrong, I’m right” chorus. And while I don’t think anybody would argue that the solo is an example of Harrison’s best work, I love the sound of the solo, especially the way it bleeds in from McCartney’s shouts of “hey, hey, hey.”

The song’s position on the album is also a great example of how well-sequenced Sgt. Pepper’s is – to my eary, musically, the harpsichord sort of prefigures the harp of “She’s Leaving Home” (when I was younger, I often mistook the two songs based on that harpsichord intro), and how the bass line is echoed in (to my non-technical ears) the bass of “Mr. Kite” – at least stylistically, if not harmonically.

So I guess what’s becoming increasingly fascinating to me about “Fixing a Hole” is how a song that I always sort of thought of as one of the album’s “lesser” tracks – a song that I might even have described as being a bit out of place – is really a subtle touchstone for the entire album in the way it sets up, comments on, prefigures and echoes various lyrical and musical themes (this would include the theme of transition, which is alluded to in the final line – “I’ve taken the time for a number of things that weren’t important yesterday” – transition being one of the album’s major concerns). But perhaps that’s reading too much into it.

Lew: I like the solo quite a lot. Admittedly, it's not quite at the level of his work for “Something” or “Let It Be” in terms of musical content, but I love what it adds sonically. It’s a concise little interlude that adds a slight feeling of chaos to the song, maybe in some way underpinning the tension between mundanity and escapism that the narrator is describing.

I think your term “touchstone” is a good one. It's not far-fetched to say that “Fixing A Hole,” along with “A Day In The Life” presents one of the clearest distillations of what they seem to be trying get at on Sgt. Pepper’s. I've always been a little torn about the idea of it as a concept album, because it doesn’t present (or attempt to present, as the case may be) a linear narrative in the same way as The Wall or Tommy, but in the light of the discussion we’ve been having, it actually strikes me as more of a genuine concept - an attempt to communicate a particular point of view via music, rather than a haphazard rock opera. In that respect, I think you’re right on when you note that the line “I've taken the time for a number of things that weren't important yesterday,” hits on something fundamental about the concept that’s at stake throughout the album, and, to my mind, it really is getting at a tension between the traditional aspects of daily life and the aspiration to find something more genuine, which is also very much at play in “It’s Getting Better,” “She's Leaving Home,” “Within You Without You” and so on.

Aaron: Exactly – so it’s not a “concept” album in the sense that it tells a story (shouldn’t that really be a “story album?”) or in the way it pushes a particular line of thought or philosophy (I guess those are generally called “loose concept albums”). However, the concept we’ve outlined here does seem to be one of the thicker, more noticeably strands tying the album together (again, I’d say, noticeable in part due to the excellent sequencing. So it seems like we’ve essentially decided that Sgt. Pepper’s – long mistakenly labeled the “first concept” album, then indisputably regarded as NOT a concept album – maybe just is a concept album after all. And all based on a conversation about what is arguably the least celebrated track on the album. Excellent work. I’d say that’s a good day’s work and so a good place to leave off. Of course we’d love to hear our readers’ thoughts on this or any other question we’ve raised about Sgt. Pepper’s, and any others that we haven’t raised as well.

Coming Next: With George Martin’s help, John constructs an enduring psychedelic rock classic.

Track #7: “She Said She Said” Revolver (1966)

Welcome to Track Chatter, where we choose a different song to discuss in depth. This entry is part of an ongoing series in which we reconsider songs by The Beatles. Can anything new be said about this band or its music? Have a look below and let us know what you think.

Aaron: Lucky number 7. Revolver, released in the UK in August of 1966, is The Beatles’ seventh album. It is also the final album to be released in different versions for the UK and US markets – in this case, the difference being that “And Your Bird Can Sing,” “Doctor Robert,” and “I’m Only Sleeping,” which appeared on Revolver in the UK, had already been released in the US as tracks on Yesterday and Today earlier that summer. No additional tracks were added to the US version of Revolver, so it was simply three tracks shorter than the UK version.

Before moving on to a discussion of the album and this entry’s track, I think it’s worth pointing out that The Beatles’ first album, Please Please Me, had been released in March of 1963. Thus, in just over three years, the band released seven albums – seven albums that include, whatever one’s opinion of the band or its music, some of the most memorable and well-known popular music ever recorded: a fairly amazing feat by any standard. It’s difficult to imagine any pop artist today working at such a fever pitch.

Revolver, much like its predecessor, has become one of the albums that it’s safe for almost anybody to like – fan and non-fan alike. The songwriting and musical arrangements show a noticeable amount of maturity over their earlier, “bubble gum” phase. At the same time, their studio experimentation has not yet progressed to the point of what some see as the indulgence of later efforts. In short, both Rubber Soul and Revolver see a band that has found a way to balance all its many talents in the service of forward-thinking, immaculately produced, driving pop classics. Revolver includes such tracks as “Eleanor Rigby,” one of their strongest lyrical expressions, the infectious, joyous pop of “And Your Bird Can Sing,” the silliness of “Yellow Submarine” (which, silliness aside, is one of the catchiest pop songs ever written – just try to get it out of your head now . . . “we all live in a . . .”), and the psychedelic experimentation of “Tomorrow Never Knows.”

The track we’ll be discussing for this entry is “She Said She Said,” a Lennon/McCartney number that is, in effect, so much a Lennon number that it is one of the very few Beatles’ tracks on which McCartney makes no appearance at all – in addition to his lead guitar duties, George Harrison plays bass. It’s a song that deftly represents much of what makes Revolver such a strong album – excellent musicianship (anybody who can still say Ringo’s not a good drummer after listening to “She Said She Said” just isn’t listening), expressionistic lyrical experimentation, gorgeous production sheen, and hints of psychedelia. It’s a track on which, as Ian MacDonald argues, Lennon is at the summit of his creativity.



I thought it might be interesting to kick off the discussion by returning to some questions we raised early in the series about relevance and listenability. What do you think, Lew, could “She Said She Said” find a place in the contemporary pop landscape? Is there any pop or rock today that owes it a debt?

Lew: I think “She Said She Said” would be regarded as a brilliant pop song if it were released today. In our discussion of “You Won’t See Me,” we talked about the “Beatles sound” that gets used to describe certain songs, and I think that, in some respects, “She Said She Said” is an even better example. Although there are definitely some exceptions, a good number of songs that are copping a Beatlesque sound often include some allusion to psychedelia. Now, needless to say, psychedelic music doesn't start and end with The Beatles (although the perception that it does is probably a source of irritation for non-fans) – a quick overview of the Nuggets collection gives ample evidence of that. Nevertheless, “She Said She Said” is a great example of a song that is able to successfully flirt with elements of psychedelia (as you noted) without being subsumed by it. I actually prefer “expressionist” or “surrealist” as descriptors, but that's beside the point. The subject matter is obscure, even arguably abstract – although it’s relating a specific conversation, it also seems to be hinting at some kind of existential crisis brought on by the experience. I would say that even hinting at something abstract/theoretical was fairly uncommon in rock music at the time that Revolver was released. So, to answer your question about whether or not there is pop or rock in the current landscape that owes a song like “She Said She Said” a debt, I would answer yes with no hesitation. Bands like XTC (and their alter ego The Dukes of Stratosphear) owed a substantial debt to the Beatles, and there are a number of one-off songs in which bands invoke the general sound that's happening on “She Said She Said” to some extent (Soundgarden’s “Black Hole Sun,” Oasis’s “Champagne Supernova,” The Raconteurs’ “Intimate Secretary” and so on) but in a larger sense, I think that you can make an argument that “She Said She Said” is an early, and highly influential example of abstraction in rock music, and as such, influential in ways that are less immediate than the obvious power pop homages. How do you feel about that idea?

Aaron: I’m ready to go along with your terminology (“expressionist,” “abstract”) without totally abandoning the “pyschedelia” term, if only because it’s useful and it does ground the group in the era (hopefully without burying them there). I’ll come back to that in just a minute. First, I thought it might be worth dwelling on the song’s sound for just a moment longer. Part of what makes the track such a fine example of its era’s experimentation, I think, is its drone. “She Said She Said” isn’t the first song – Beatles or otherwise – to include such a drone (which seems to have been influenced by their obvious appreciation of Indian music). I think, for The Beatles, it first crops up in “Ticket To Ride” from Help!. In both songs, the drone comes in large part from the bass. However, as we’ve pointed out, Paul doesn’t play bass on “She Said She Said” – it’s George. And I think that’s important because, as we discussed with “You Won’t See Me,” by this stage in the band’s career, Paul’s bass playing was undergoing some noticeable changes in terms of the highly melodic, sometimes walking bass lines he was employing. He was good enough in the studio (great, actually) that had he played on “She Said She Said,” he likely would have modified his style enough to serve the song. But I wonder how much his presence might have affected the result, perhaps altering that drone to a certain extent.

Even with the drone, I agree with you that “psychedelia” as a term needs refining – it’s too broad and covers too many different media to have any precise meaning on its own. And as I said, I particularly like your terms “expressionist” and “abstract” – particularly in the way they describe the lyrical content on this song. I think most people probably know about the song’s genesis – the acid trip in LA, Peter Fonda bumming everybody out with his talk of having once died as a child, and so on – but its precisely Lennon’s ability to make that experience abstract by avoiding any type of exposition. It might seem – on its face – that a song composed almost entirely of “dialogue” would be very concrete. But by making the lyrics free of setting, scene, even, really, character, Lennon upends a lot of the songwriting trends that had been emerging in pop over the previous years. So the song does become expressive of its mood or feeling, rather than a story about an event or a girl. I think it’s the combination of that expressionistic approach to lyrics combined with the music – the drone, but also the swirling lead guitar parts (which sound like sitars), Ringo’s incredible, sort of rolling drums which both reinforce the lead guitars and also provide a kind of counterpoint to them, and the time signature change for the bridge – which add up to a great psychedelic pop song.

Lew: I think your discussion of the drone quality in “She Said She Said” is right on the money. I’m curious about what might have happened if Paul had played bass on this song, too. Although Paul is one of my favorite bass players, I don’t think he would have necessarily embraced that droning quality in the same way that George did – especially from a rhythmic perspective. Having said that, I think that pretty much everything about the song’s performance and recording contributes to that feeling. The lead guitar parts are perfect, from the actual playing (which is pretty drone-y in spots) to the sound of the guitar. It’s a great use of the overdriven sound that was available to them at the time. I also want to mention Ringo’s playing – it’s a great example of a Ringo moment that sounds quite different from the straighter, more restrained playing that I think people expect from him. Again, I think that’s more of a case of perception than reality – we’ve talked about a few of Ringo’s parts, and it’s clear that they’re rarely boring. Here, as in “Every Little Thing,” Ringo is taking a very compositional approach to his drum part, while largely ignoring the option to play a “rock” beat - the fills that he builds into his part set up the transitions really well, and also seem to get at the rhythmic core of the sections - finding a sort of “clave,” I guess - in ways that a more regular beat would never do. The time signature change at the bridge is pretty minor - from a straight 4/4 to a triplet feel, but it changes the feel enough to make the verse feel fresh again when it comes back around.

I also really like what you said about the abstraction and lack of exposition in the lyrics. I’d never really thought of it that way, but it almost gives me a fresh appreciation for the song. I think the Peter Fonda story sometimes overshadows the song itself, which is really a disservice to the song and the listener. In some respects, it might be better if they’d never told anyone where it came from.

Aaron: Ha! I think even if The Beatles had never mentioned the story, it would have got out. As much as I admire Peter Fonda, he’s never been shy about self-aggrandizement and myth building. I think he knows how annoying he was that day, but he still gets so much joy out of having inspired a Beatles’ song that he’ll never tire of talking about it to anybody who will listen.

In any case, about Paul’s bass playing – it’s hard to say what he would have done with this track. I don’t know exactly why he wasn’t around; all I can find is reference to a studio tiff and his storming out. What the tiff had to do with, I’ve no clue. However, a few things are worth keeping in mind, one of which is that by this point the band was in the midst of a period of Paul really taking over in terms a lot of creative direction decisions. Because John was in the early days of a two-year acid bender that would leave him somewhat tapped for long-term energy, it was really Paul (and George Martin) who was responsible for a lot of the overarching creative decision making from Revolver through Magical Mystery Tour. So I have a feeling that had he wanted to push for a more bouncy bass part, he would have got his way. Having said that, however, it’s also worth noting that Paul’s playing on the verses of “Ticket To Ride,” which is much more drone-y than what George brings to “She Said She Said,” is a major element in that song as a key early departure for the band. So who knows what he might have brought to “She Said . . .” had he been the one to perform on it.

When it comes to Ringo’s drumming, what more can I say (besides, nice call on the modified clave – had never thought to put it that way). The more I listen to these and other tracks for this project, the more I find it confusing – unfathomable, even – that he’s got a reputation for being a mediocre or even bad (or, worst of all, boring!) drummer. His ability to play straight 4/4 (which is almost never completely straight, the way he accents the hi-hat, or swings the beat) and then switch almost seamlessly to what you call a “more compositional approach” is not only impressive, on some tracks – including “She Said She Said” – it’s damned exhilarating! And not only is he a very good drummer, I’m not even sure if it would be a stretch to argue that Ringo’s drumming is as distinctive and vital an element to the band’s sound and development as any other single aspect apart, perhaps, from the vocals.

Lew: “Ticket to Ride” is definitely a weird one. If I didn’t know better, I would suspect that Paul didn’t play bass on it at all. It doesn’t really have any of his usual flair for bridging between chords, mirroring the vocal melody, etc. That said, I think that one of the things that allows for a “dronier” bass part in “Ticket to Ride” is that there’s only one chord happening for the almost the entire verse. “She Said She Said” doesn’t offer that same kind of space, so the drone feel is definitely more of an overall effect.

As to what degree of importance Ringo’s playing has to the sound of The Beatles, I’d agree that it’s huge and vastly understated by most people. At the risk of stating the obvious, I think it’s the case in most bands that while people tend to focus on the vocalist or guitar player, the drummer is really the engine that drives the core of the band’s sound. If that’s not the case, you probably have a bad drummer. That perspective isn’t often applied to The Beatles – I’m not sure if that has to do with Ringo’s public persona or maybe the lack of clarity to hear what he’s really doing on some of the recordings - although it’s as true for them as any other band. If you played “She Said She Said” through with a straight 4/4 beat (which you could even maintain through the 12/8 section if you wanted), the song would have a completely different sound.

Aaron: Just a little factoid before we go: not only does Paul play bass on “Ticket To Ride,” he also plays lead guitar, just as George plays both on “She Said She Said” (I think it’s one of the first songs on which Paul played lead).

With that, I think we’ll leave off and see what are readers have to say. What do you think . . . could you imagine hearing “She Said She Said” on the radio today? Where would it slot in the with the Gagas and the Kanyes and the Death Cabs and the Coldplays? And, as usual, we would love to hear any thoughts you might have on this track or any of the other topics we’ve brought up.

Coming Next: Paul gets an idea in his head on THE BEST ALBUM OF ALL TIME!!!

Track #6: “You Won't See Me” Rubber Soul (1965)

Welcome to Track Chatter, where we choose a different song to discuss in depth. This entry is part of an ongoing series in which we reconsider songs by The Beatles. Can anything new be said about this band or its music? Have a look below and let us know what you think.

Lew: The Beatles’ sixth album, Rubber Soul, is a standout, even among a body of work as strong as that of the Beatles. Released in December of 1965, the album is one of the most striking examples of the progression that The Beatles made between Please Please Me, and their later, more experimental work. If Beatles For Sale represented the beginning of The Beatles’ move away from straightforward pop, Rubber Soul can be seen as a full realization of that move. While The Beatles have yet to move into the full-scale psychedelia of Revolver and Sgt. Pepper’s, they have certainly abandoned overt reference to many of the more traditional pop influences to which they were indebted early on, both compositionally and sonically. Among other notable innovations, Rubber Soul is generally thought to contain the first instance of a rock band incorporating sitar into an arrangement (on “Norwegian Wood”).

While the notion of selecting “lesser known” tracks becomes increasingly problematic on albums as well-loved as Rubber Soul, we’ve decided to adhere to it as closely as possible. We’ll be talking about the track “You Won’t See Me,” which is credited to Lennon/McCartney, but generally acknowledged to be a Paul song. At the time that Rubber Soul was released, “You Won’t See Me” was the longest track that The Beatles had recorded, clocking in at the epic length of 3:22!



Aaron, I’m curious about how you hear this song, in terms of its place in The Beatles body of work. Do you think this song would have sounded out of place on an earlier album?

Aaron: I guess Rubber Soul brings us to a place of interesting confluence in The Beatles’ career – they’re getting tired of touring (I think they’ve got one big tour left in them), their compositional strategies are developing (as you mention), and studio conditions are improving. Furthermore, their access to space at Abbey Road studios has become a rock band’s dream – it was around this time that the band were given free, unlimited access to the studio. Rubber Soul was still something of a rushed project, as they only had about three months to write and record it in time for a Christmas push, but it was their first album recorded as an album, over one block of sessions, and not as a song here or there between tours and other appearances.

“You Won’t See Me” has never been one of my favorite Beatles’ tunes, but there’s no question it’s easily recognizable as “different” from their earlier output. The production alone marks it as a departure – the mix is so nice and clean, with each separate part both discernable and yet well-integrated in the overall mix (you can hear the bass drum!). The double-tracked vocals, the high-hat fills – the sound of all this marks it as what I’ve often thought of as a sort of second-wave of rock recording. The older Beatles stuff sort of comes at the tale end of the first wave – two-track and primitive four-track recording, basic arrangements, a narrow range of instrumentation, etc. I don’t at all mean to say the sound of early rock was bad, only different. By the mid-sixties, however, all that was changing. I think we’ve done a pretty good job throughout this series of tracing The Beatles’ role at the forefront of that innovation, and “You Won’t See Me” is a fine example – I guess that’s what I mean by a confluence: it wasn’t only the band that was going through a metamorphosis by this point, but both the concept of what a pop song could be and the methods by which it was produced. Looking back on this response, I realize I’ve taken the long way around of avoiding talking about the song itself – so I’ll throw it back to you for that, Lew. What about “You Won’t See Me” appeals to you?

Lew: I guess there are a few ways that I could answer that question, but the thing that I think is probably most significant about the song is that it, along with some other songs on Rubber Soul, seems to be an early example of what I think people mean when they say that something sounds “Beatlesque.” The chord progression in "You Won't See Me" is much simpler than what they had been commonly using in their earlier material, and the song in general seems to contain fewer allusions to the rock music that preceded it (much less jazz). To go back to some of the things that we were talking about in our early discussions, "You Won't See Me" seems like less of an amalgamation of earlier styles that they're recontextualizing. In some ways, that makes it debatably more deliberate sounding.

At the same time, they're able to do more with vocal arrangements by this point than they had previously, and the backup part at the end of the bridge ("no I wouldn't, no I wouldn't") is a great example of the more "psychedelic" direction that they'd be headed in. The backing vocal part isn't clearly defined at first listen, and its effect is to create a wash of sound – momentary chaos, one might say – that then resolves back into a statement of the verse melody. It's very effective in that respect.

Aaron: You’re certainly right about the vocal arrangement, which builds to such a finely layered mix of voices that I’d hardly paid much attention to it before. Also on listening again, I’ve realized how the bass really leads the song, and it’s a very melodic bass line (headphones really help bring things out in the mono mix). The bass line is a force here, so clean and seeming to wander all around the melody, while the piano and rhythm guitar almost seem to be comping it in a big-band jazz sort of way.

Which brings me to your description of this song as “Beatlesque,” which I think is probably accurate. It would be great if you could describe, a bit, what that actually means in terms of chord selection and so on. But returning to an issue that’s been coming up more recently, one thing I find interesting is how this song represents some of the changing dynamics of the group and what that means for their sound. Let’s say the term “Beatlesque” can be said to have three phases – the early career “She Loves You, Yeah Yeah Yeah” vibe, the mid-career blending of more advanced harmonies, folk forays, and early psychedelia of Rubber Soul and Revolver, and the late career, post-Pepper breaking apart of one discernible sound into more distinct, overlapping sounds of the individual songwriters (please let me know if this classification doesn’t work for you). A lot of things are going on in that transition – Paul is becoming a master of melody and harmony, so that he can write a beautiful sounding song almost effortlessly. He’s also becoming more demanding of himself and the band in the studio. John is starting to care less about those things, but is pushing experimentation (along with Paul and the others) and also pushing both the personal and political aspects of his lyrics. Superficially, it could be argued that Paul is becoming more concerned with how the music sounds whereas John is becoming more concerned with what it says (again, aware of the superficial nature of this contention). And George is becoming a more expansive songwriter in his own right. At the same time, the band is just becoming tighter and tighter, better at their individual instruments and also better at playing with and off each other.

“You Won’t See Me” crystallizes that mid-era sound, which comes from each of the boys playing their specific part to perfection, however diminished - John only sings on the song and doesn’t play any instruments, George plays a simple rhythm with no solo, and aside from the harmony vocals, it’s really only Paul and Ringo who bust out here. Yet it all works together to make one of those effortless McCartney numbers that I mentioned. Which, I guess, leads back to what you said about the song being less a recontextualization and more an example of The Beatles coming into their own as creators and producers of their own sound. Listened to in that context, the song becomes a lot more interesting to me.

Lew: Right off the bat, I want to say that I agree about the bass line. “You Won't See Me” provides a great example of Paul's bass playing, and a lesson in exactly how underrated he is as a bass player. In this instance, he does a great job of hitting chord tones in a very melodic way, and also does some nice chromatic movement to navigate the chords in the pre-chorus (“it’s been so long, girl, since you've been gone,” etc). Possibly even more importantly, he maintains a rhythmic motif that permeates the entire song – it’s so present during the verses and chorus that anytime he deviates from the rhythmic feel, it has the effect of really changing the vibe of the song for that space of time. A particularly effective aspect is his almost always landing on the “and” of 2 in the measure. In any case, the bass line is busy enough that the piano and guitar parts being almost completely confined to playing on 2 & 4 works completely.

The question about specifically what musical moves constitute the “Beatlesque” sound is an interesting one. In a lot of respects, the texture of the vocal arrangement is a big part of it. Having said that, I think that it’s a certain tension that comes from using a fairly obvious group of chords, but making a lot of those chords dominant 7ths (in places where a dominant chord usually wouldn’t be used), and also occasionally including a chord that’s very effective, but deviates from the key signature that has been established up to that point. A great example in “You Won't See Me” happens in the pre-chorus (if you can call it that) under the lines “we have lost the time that was so hard to find.” Under the word “time,” they play a D major chord, but switch to a D minor by “was.” That, to my mind, really captures the Beatlesque sound, and it’s something that you see popping up at all stages of their career, even as the more cosmetic elements of their music were experiencing dramatic changes.

Aaron: That’s a great technical breakdown of “Beatlesque” as a descriptor, both of their music and the music they influenced. When you put it in musical terms like that (which I’d never be able to do), it makes it much clearer to me how the existence of a Beatlesque sound can permeate their entire career. If they were interested in such chord experiments and key deviations from their early days, it would make sense that, as they improved as a band and then as a studio unit, and then began to break apart, their exploration of such sonic possibilities would expand and improve as well. It will definitely be worth revisiting as we enter the middle portion of their career when they were, arguably, at their most Beatlesque. But before we wind down, do you think it might be worth looking back to a couple other specific examples from earlier in their career in which they were investigating and pushing such sonic divergences? Just for a little context?

Lew: It's definitely worthwhile to look at an older Beatles track to get a look at the genesis of the Beatlesque sound. I thought of “I Feel Fine” first, and it’s an intriguing one, not least because of the feedback at the beginning (which I think you may have mentioned recently). It’s also a great example of the way The Beatles were able to push typical melodies in new directions by playing a straight I IV V chord progression as dominant 7ths across the board. In the line “I’m in love with her and I feel fine,” the word “her” is a minor third from the tonic (G major in this case) – typically, you’d expect the vocal to hit the major 3rd there (B), but instead the vocal sings a Bb, which is included in the C7 (C, E, G, Bb) that’s happening underneath the vocal at the time. Ordinarily, that C chord would not have contained a Bb. It’s hard to say where that comes from – whether they just played 7th chords underneath everything because those were the chords that they knew, or whether they heard the melodies that way and arranged the chords to match. Anyway, it's a great example of the slightly skewed simplicity of the Beatles' sound.

Aaron: “Slightly skewed” is a fine way to put it. One thing I’m really getting out of this series is a greater appreciation of how that skewed sensibility was not only integral to the band’s success, but also seems to have been an organic part of their development. The question of how much of it was “natural” and how much “planned,” still lingers, I guess, and it’s something we’ll take up (along with a further exploration just what “Beatlesque” means) in our next entry. Until then, I’d love to hear what our readers think about “You Won’t See Me” or any of the other points we’ve raised.

Coming Next: We extend our discussion of the Beatlesque sound as Peter Fonda freaks out John Lennon and the band moves fully into their mature phase on Revolver.