My Evolution Revolution of the Solo Fabs (Or Imagine Living in the Material World, say London Town, with Beaucoups of Blues) Part 6: Wild Life Live

After leaving the Beatles, it’s amazing that Paul McCartney was even remotely interested in forming a new band.  That he did, indeed, form a new band—and not just a backing band (although there’s some of that, too)—but a band, whose members would contribute (a few) songs and sing lead (occasionally), and that that band would become HUGE, staggers the mind.  It was a gamble on McCartney’s part, but Wings proved to be a band in its own right.  A good, and often great band.  And, above all, Wings wasn’t, nor tried to be, the Beatles Part II.

One could argue that Ram is a Wings album.  But officially, and in my own estimation, Ram is a Paul and Linda album.  Which means that Wild Life is, what many would considerer, the inauspicious debut of Wings.

But I like the album.  

Like his famous enthusiastic four-count opening for I Saw Her Standing There, which ushered in The Beatles, McCartney ushered in Wings with an equally enthusiastic “Take it Tony!”, a cue for engineer Tony Clarke to make sure the tapes were a-rollin’.  Mumbo, the song Tony was a-takin’, is a rocking tune with nonsense lyrics delivered by McCartney with an intensity that powers the tune along.  Yea, it may be a throwaway jam fest, but it’s a really fun throwaway jam fest, and does show off some of the musicianship found within the new band.

There’s no rescuing Bip Bop.  It sounds like a song that one would noodle around with while sitting on the back porch, perhaps between sips of an alcoholic beverage.  Lyrically insipid (for what lyrics there are), it’s a real head-scratcher that McCartney would not only include the song on an album meant to introduce his new band, but to include it as the second track, following the lyric-less Mumbo, means that there are two lyric-impaired songs ushering in the new band.

Next up is Love is Strange, which for me, was the first time I’d ever heard the song.  (It would be a year os so before I discovered Micky and Sylvia).  The reggae-infused tune works great for Paul and especially Linda, who sings like she’s really enjoying herself.  After hearing the classic Micky and Silvia version, the Wings version impressed me even more with it’s inspired use of reggae, making the song, in that version of course, a Wings song.  The classic still belonging to Micky and Sylvia.

Sometime it’s easy to forget how much the Fabs’ liked the blues.  All four of ‘em include blues tunes on their solo outings, and Wild Life is one of McCartney’s best.  I’m not in the school that thinks the song is another well-veiled snipe at the Lennons’ and their radical politics.  (“We’re breathing a lot, a lot of political nonsense in the air”).  It’s hard to think that McCartney would swipe at Lennon on side one, and on the other, offer a delicate and emotional peace treaty.  To me, Wild Life is about the obvious: protecting animals and saving the planet.  Paul and Linda were on the green wagon long before it became fashionable, and I think Wild Life attests to that.  And McCartney’s vocal attack (does he sometimes say “am-inals”?) seems to hammer home the sentiment.

Side two offers decent songs written to, for and about Paul and Linda’s relationship.  I particularly like I Am Your Singer, which once again features Linda, and pretty much sums up their partnership.

There’s nothing to say, really, about the two, brief instrumental “links”, Bip Bop and Mumbo, except that they weren’t named on the original album and I thought they were bonus cuts when picking up the CD.

And Dear Friend, as mentioned, is a call for a truce with Lennon.  One can only imagine what kind of song McCartney would have written, after having heard How Do You Sleep?, if Paul was still in a fighting mood.  But fortunately for us, and especially for them, Paul instead decided to lay down his arms and to give peace a chance.

The Concert For Bangla Desh remains one of the best live concert recordings ever.  It was the first time George Harrison appeared on stage as a solo artist and it was also the first-ever benefit rock concert, which, like the single Bangla Desh, was to bring awareness and much needed aid and relief to the refugees of the war-torn country.  George Harrison brought in a bunch of his friends, creating a supergroup that delivered.  And some.

The concert itself was put together quickly, which meant that there wasn’t much time for preparations for recording the event.  This meant, that try as he might, co-producer Phil Spector wasn’t able to completely construct his wall of sound.  This means that the songs Harrison performs from his All Things Must Pass album, Wah-Wah in particular, explode with an energy and vibrancy that were never able to break through on the studio recordings.  The Bangla Desh version of Awaiting on You All, even with the forgotten lyrics, could have been released as a single; it just rocks.

And speaking of rocking, the live version of Bangla Desh achieves the intensity of the original single.  But live, Harrison’s vocal, while still filled with urgency, is confident and powerful.  It’s a great note on which to end the concert.

The spotlight on Ringo for It Don’t Come Easy is also great fun.  What’s a missed lyric here and there, right?

As I am more-or-less charting the Fabs’ solo efforts, I won’t go into how stellar Dylan’s set is, that Clapton’s solo on While My Guitar Gently Weeps is (understandably, given his condition) pretty uninspired.  I also won’t note that Leon Russell seemed to be trying to upstage everybody. 

My Evolution Revolution of the Solo Fabs (Or Imagine Living in the Material World, say London Town, with Beaucoups of Blues) Part 5: Lennon Gets Back

In my hasty conclusion to my assessment of Paul and Linda’s Ram, I neglected to mention the mono version of the album.  Originally the mono edition of Ram was only released as a radio promo, therefore becoming one of the many Beatle-related holy grails for collectors.  Fortunately, the mono mix was included in the mega-deluxe edition of the recent re-release of Ram.  And it—just like the mono mixes of the Beatles albums—is considerable different than the stereo version; and just like the mono Beatle albums, mono Ram rules!  (The bass, drums and percussion are punchier, and the lead vocals are a bit more forward making the entire album even more engaging.  Just check out the fade of Monkberry Moon Delight and “don’t get left behind”…)

Bangla Desh, rock’s first charity single is also, if I’m not mistaken, the only non-album single released by George Harrison.  (Although he did have a couple of non-album B-Sides).  It’s not fair to access Bangla Desh as one might a traditional single.  Yes, it’s a song that sounds like what it was, one that Harrison basically knocked off in a few minutes; and yes, the (over)-production is what one would expect from Phil Spector; and yes, Harrison’s vocal is uncomfortably strained.  But, as a charity single, designed to shine a spotlight on the humanitarian crisis in Bangledesh, and, without involving politics, act as a call of action, Bangla Desh is pretty perfect.

Harrison is almost out-Lennon-ing John with his (Harrison’s) unexpectedly raw and emotional song.  And like many of Lennon’s singles, Harrison’s tune has the easy to remember and sing refrain, “Bangla Desh/Bangla Desh” which is pretty much the whole point of the song.  Harrison’s wry sense of humor is also on display to great effect with the final verse’s “Now won’t you give some bread to get the starving fed.” 

(This may be the worst album cover ever.)

As mentioned, the production is—Spector-ed.  But that doesn’t diminish the performances, which rocks pretty well.  And even Harrison’s voice, strained as it is (and which portends his singing in his ill-fated 1974 U.S. tour) actually works to the benefit of the song by adding a sense of urgency.  (An urgency which Harrison obviously felt and is proved by his naming the song Bangla Desh instead of Bangladesh.)  Oddly, except for the 1990 CD release of the uninspired and calculated The Best of George Harrison (originally compiled and released by Capitol Records in 1976), Bangla Desh has not been remastered or released on CD.  The single’s B-Side, the wonderful, thoughtful, powerful Deep Blue, a song inspired by the death of Harrison’s mother, finally saw CD release as bonus track on the remastered Living in the Material World.  

Following his pessimistic and fatalistic masterpiece, Plastic Ono Band,  John Lennon returns with an album, much of which lyrically could have been part of Plastic Ono Band, but which musically is full of warmth and optimism (mostly), epitomized by the album’s idealistic title track, Imagine.  

I honestly can’t remember the song Imagine pre-December 1980.  I mean, I knew the song was pretty much perfect and all (actually no “pretty much” about it; it is perfect), but after his murder, Imagine and Lennon are one and the same.  Originally a song that was a gentle commentary on the zeitgeist of the early 70s, Imagine, has been elevated to near-national anthem status all over the world.  The fascinating thing is, while Imagine espouses peace, it does so at the expense of nationalism.   

It was 1966 when Beatle records by the hundreds were being burned in the southern United States because of a misunderstanding of a quote about Jesus, Lennon had given to a British newspaper.  A mere five years later he has a hit song with boldly stated lyrics, “Imagine there’s no heaven” and “Imagine…no religion, too.”  These lyrics are accepted 

  

and indeed sung today by the masses.  But I wonder, had Lennon lived and the song were released today, would the anti-religious lyrics be condemned?  Indeed, given his views on religion, one wonders what kinds of conversations John and the very spiritual George Harrison must have had.  Ah, to be a fly on the wall….  

While it took just one line from Elvis Costello to skewer Lennon’s hypocrocsy in regards to capitalism, “Was it a millionaire that said imagine no possessions.” from Costello’s song, The Other Side of Summer, I think Lennon would have liked the line, and thought it was funny.   And if not, there’s no doubt that Lennon wold have gotten his own back, ala How Do You Sleep?

Crippled Inside is as self-critical as anything found on Plastic Ono Band.  But Lennon hides the song’s cynicism behind a funky piano and Harrison’s dobro, making it a foot-tapping sing-along.

After hearing snippets, on various Beatlegs, of Lennon’s Child of Nature, a White Album period song, I’m grateful that Lennon abandoned it, because his reworking of the tune, turned it into the classic Jealous Guy.  Once again, lyrically, the song would easily fit on Plastic Ono Band.  But the lush production takes the edge off of Lennon’s self recrimination, softening it, making his lament more universal.  I wish the production were less lush and sentimental, but still love the song.

I love Lennon’s rock-blues It’s So Hard.  While once again possibly in Plastic Ono Band’s wheelhouse, Lennon keeps the lyrical chronicling of his daily struggles so general that everyone can identify with them.  I mean “You gotta eat; You gotta drink” too, right?  Plus, especially coming after Jealous Guy, this song rocks.

My feelings for I Don’t Want To Be a Soldier have changed throughout the years.  When I first heard it, at age 15-16, I found it pretty boring, with little substance, musically, to sustain the six-minute tune.  Then, in 1980, when the draft registration (for males) was reinstated, and I, along with my friends, had to “sign up”, the song took on new relevance.  But since the song isn’t really about soldiering, war, etc., but rather continues Plastic Ono Band’s self-examination, I went back to thinking it a too-long riff-song.  Now, however, while lyrically sparse and uninteresting, I really love, (and I feel I should warn you, you may want to sit down for this), I really love Phil Spector’s production.  His wall of echo, particularly on Lennon’s vocals, but critically on the awesome sax solo by King Kurtis, adds an aura of anxiety, that increases with the seemingly endless repetition of the riff.  

The line “no short-haired yellow-bellied son of Tricky Dicky” from Give Me Some Truth, is not only funny, but fun to sing.  (“Tight-lipped condescending mommy’s little chauvinists” isn’t quite as funny, but still fun to sing.)  And Oh My Love, another Let It Be-ish era song, is surely one of the most delicate songs Lennon and co-writer Yoko, ever wrote.  I’m not sure who came up with Harrison’s guitar part, but it’s as fundamental to the song as is his guitar work in the Fabs’ And I Love Her.  (And countless others.)

Like so much of Plastic Ono Band, I felt Lennon wrote How specifically about me.  Many days, I still do.  

Lennon answers his own question, How? with the album’s final song, the jubilant Oh Yoko!  Catchy and easy to sing-along with (“in the middle of a shave/in the middle of a shave I call your name”) the jaunty piano and harmonica solo are just hard to resist.  Not that, early on, I didn’t try to resist.  Yoko, after all, was the sole reason that the Beatles broke up, right?  But honestly, even then when I believed that, I couldn’t resist singing along; particularly in the shower.  (“In the middle of a bath/In the middle of a bath I call your name.”)

And thus Lennon’s second classic album, Imagine.  A more produced and commercial Plastic Ono Band.

Except Plastic Ono Band didn’t include a song that eviscerated his former band mate, former song-writing partner, former friend; Paul McCartney.

With Too Many People and possibly a few other lines on Ram, McCartney was the first to commit, in song, his feelings about his former mate.  Knowing Lennon for so long, McCartney must have known that Lennon wouldn’t take things lying down, and that Lennon would surely respond in kind—and then some.  But perhaps McCartney didn’t expect Lennon would respond so blatantly and so mercilessly.  But if that’s so, it means McCartney hadn’t listened to the raw and honest-till-it-hurts Plastic Ono Band.  After his Strawberry Fields/Lucy in the Sky period, and certainly in his solo works, Lennon’s lyrics tended to be pretty straight forward and blunt.   But he was never as straight forward and blunt as he was in his open letter to McCartney, How Do You Sleep?  

In the song, Lennon takes aim at McCartney with venom and cheap shots as well as some head-scratchers.  (“Sgt Pepper took you by surprise”?  Surprised at what?  It’s success?  Sgt. Pepper was McCartney’s idea.  If anyone was surprised at the success of Sgt. Pepper, one would think it would have been Lennon himself.)  

The line, “The only thing you done was Yesterday” is not only obviously false, but perhaps reflects a jealousy on John’s part.  Especially considering the original couplet was, “You probably pinched that bitch anyway.”  Of course it was John who had “pinched” some lyrics from Chuck Berry to use in Come Together, but who’s counting.  (The couplet used, the admittedly brilliantly-snide “And since you’ve gone your just Another Day” was contributed by upstanding manager of the stars, Allen Klein.  The very same guy who represented John, George and Ringo, but whom Paul didn’t trust.  You know, the guy that, after he found out he had been pretty much played, Lennon wrote the song Steal and Glass about.)

Up until this time, Harrison, while writing about his own frustrations about his fellow band-mates in song, had not specifically pointed at Paul.  That changed with his participation on How Do You Sleep?  Harrison’s guitar work is inspired and tonally fits perfectly with the song.  One gets the impression that he and John were having a blast taking the piss out of McCartney.

Fortunately, while he appears elsewhere on the album, Ringo does not play on How Do You Sleep?  And apparently he helped to tone down the lyrics, many of which, although not credited, were written by Yoko.

It’s a time-and-place song that illustrates much more about Lennon than anything else.  Lennon says as much in various interviews, proclaiming that, at the time, he wasn’t feeling vicious, but was rather using his resentment towards Paul as a catalyst to write a song.  Of course that doesn’t exactly jive when hearing in one of the session outtakes, John sing, “How do you sleep?  You C—[word].” 

 While I don’t think it fits at all with the rest of the Imagine album, I actually like the song How Do You Sleep?  It’s juvenilely clever, with, as mentioned, some great slide guitar work by Harrison.  When I first got the album, it was certainly the song I wanted to hear the most, especially after having read how savage it was.  In that regard, the song didn’t disappoint.  But I was disappointed that my copy of the album didn’t included the postcard, which was a photograph of a bow-legged Lennon holding a pig; a mocking poke at McCartney’s Ram cover.  After seeing that it didn't have the postcard, I immediately brought the album back and had the clerk at my local Sam Goody open every single copy of Imagine they had to check for that postcard.  But none of them had it.  Which meant that, as a Beatle completist, I couldn’t sleep at night.  

My Evolution Revolution of the Solo Fabs (Or Imagine Living in the Material World, say London Town, with Beaucoups of Blues) Part 4: Macca's Masterpiece

So, 1970 saw the release of the final Beatle album, Let It Be, as well as the first solo albums by each of the former Fabs.   

 

  (And, in Ringo’s case, two solo albums.)  Whereas McCartney was a solid, if somewhat uninspired and deliberately under-produced solo debut, All Things Must Pass and Plastic Ono Band were both unqualified masterpieces.  For new material, Paul was up first in 1971 with his first solo single, Another Day.  Essentially a reworking of the themes in Eleanor Rigby, the song is not bad, but hardly worthy of a McCartney A-side, especially when contrasted with the songs on his former band-mates’ albums.  For me, it’s the flip side, Oh Woman, Oh Why which, while probably not hit material, shows the rocking side of McCartney’s writing, and brings back a bit of the throat-crunching singing/screaming he’d done on Oh! Darling.

A week after the release of Another Day, Lennon came out with another of his anthems, Power To the People.  Once again containing an easy, sing-along chorus, Power To the People seems considerable more political than Lennon’s previous anthems.  Eschewing, for the moment, his pleas for peace, Lennon flat-out states that the people should rise up in revolution, which, I guess means that at that point and time, you could count Lennon “in”.  As a song it’s a good reflection of the times, but not much more than that.

Ringo’s first single is up next, and, as first singles from the Fabs are concerned, it’s the best.  (Harrison’s first single, My Sweet Lord, had broken the Beatle tradition of not releasing songs that were on their albums, which the Fabs’ themselves broke with Abbey Road and Let It Be.  This restriction, of course didn’t apply to the U.S. albums, where the Fabs had no control of what and when something was released.)  With it’s instantly recognizable guitar opening, Ringo’s It Don’t Come Easy is pretty much perfect Ringo and has remained his theme song.  The flip side, Early 1970, is an open love letter to his former band-mates.  Each former Beatle gets a verse, with McCartney’s including an interesting invitation.  Since Ringo had played drums on both Lennon’s Plastic Ono Band and Harrison’s All Thing’s Must Pass (and Harrison had played on Lennon’s Instant Karma as well as both sides of Ringo’s single), Ringo’s line “And when he comes to town I wonder if he’ll play with me” is Ringo offering Paul an olive branch, which Paul would eventually accept. 

And then came Ram.

The album had me from the first line of the first song, Too Many People, where Paul sings, “Piece of Caaaaaaaaake!”  Of course I later learned that while the intent was for we laymen to hear “Piece of cake” what McCartney really is singing is “Piss off, cake”, the first two words being the opening salvo, in lyrical form, directed at Lennon.  Tired of the three 

ex-Beatles vs. one dynamic, and upping the anti in the war of words he and Lennon where exchanging with each other thru the press, McCartney let loose his feelings for all the pop-buying public to hear, albeit in rather covert lyrics, which would require a bit of work from the listener.  If that listener were someone other than John Lennon, of course.  Lennon understood every veiled jibe.  And some.  

(While his lyrics were perhaps cryptic, the photo on the back of Ram’s album cover was anything but.  There’s really no mistaking what Paul meant with the picture of two actual beetles, um, not mating nor making love, but rather more you know what-ing each other.  It was, and remains, a pretty depressing photo to see on the back of Paul’s first classic solo album.)

If one had to say which was the most acerbic Beatle, I think the unanimous response would be Lennon.  But Too Many People shows that Paul could muster up a bit of the snark when he wanted to.  “Too many people preaching practices/Don’t let ‘em tell you what you wanna be”  takes dead aim at both John and Yoko.  Likewise “You took your lucky break and broke it in two”.  Pretty much the whole song is a cleverly disguised dig at his former partner.  It’s also a damn good song.

I know 3 Legs seems a rather more obvious reference to the other 3 ex-Beatles, but, to be honest, if it is, it’s cloaked really well.  While Paul convincingly says otherwise, it’s easy to see Dear Boy as written to John.  And while John was sure that the final lines in the album’s last song, the classic The Back Seat of My Car, were also a dig, Paul and Linda harmonizing on “We believe that we can’t be wrong” just fits so well within the context of the song that, even if it was a line specifically about them, Paul and Linda were singing it to everyone, and not specifically Lennon.  Or so I think.

As I mentioned, Ram, on first listen, became, at the time, my favorite McCartney album.  I’m glad I didn’t get that Too Many People was aimed at Lennon right away, because it is the first, in what would become a staple on McCartney albums; a cracker-jack opening number.  I think that, perhaps, had I known it was about Lennon, it would have had a negative effect on me, and I wouldn’t have loved it as much as I still do.  Uncle Albert/Admiral Halsey had a single release and got quite a lot of airplay, and was a definite hit with my friends and even my brother, who loved to sing along with Linda as she gargled “water.”  When listening to the album, I always love anticipating Monkberry Moon Delight, a song I didn’t understand, but also kinda did.  (Whatever that means.  Understand?  Thought so.)  Another fav was/is Long Haired Lady, simple, and lyrically light though it is.  A great deal of its appeal is Linda’s middle-eight part, where she delivers with a wonderfully sarcastic tone: “Or is this the only thing you want me for?” Indeed.

Which brings me to Linda.  

She’s one of the crucial elements that makes Ram so good.  Her presence is all over the album, adding a wonderful humor and warmth that is hard to resist.  While she would be an integral member of Wings, Linda was never featured as prominently on a McCartney album again.  That’s understandable because the critics were far from kind, both to the album in general and to Linda specifically.  

Critics be damned, Ram is a great album, not inspite of, but because of Linda McCartney.  (There, I said it.)  

RAM ON!

My Evolution Revolution of the Solo Fabs (Or Imagine Living in the Material World, say London Town, with Beaucoups of Blues) Part 3: Two Masterpieces

What can one say about George Harrison’s epic All Things Must Pass except Holy Moly!  Eighteen songs—plus the bonus album Apple Jams’ additional five songs—All Things Must Pass is nothing if not ambitious.  Clearly Harrison had a backlog of songs, many written and rejected during his Beatle years; and with his rekindled interest in the guitar, he also had a bevy of new songs.  Not just songs, but good songs, with styles and diversity that ranged from folk to hard rock to country and western, with most songs, however, sprinkled with, and in some cases dipped in gospel.  Indeed, one of the few drawbacks to the album is its’ portentousness; something which would infect many of Harrison’s solo outings.  Lyrically solemn, and co-produced, nay over-co-produced by Phil Spector, whose wall-of-sound nearly obliterates any budding cheerfulness (except, perhaps, in Apple Scruffs), listening to All Things Must Pass in one sitting is arduous.  But like other “difficult” art, it’s also rewarding.  

Side one is composer Harrison at his best.  A beautiful guitar solo highlights I’d Have You Any Time, the opening track co-written with Bob Dylan.  That leads into the instantly recognizable acoustic guitar opening to My Sweet Lord, a song with three whole notes that are reminiscent of the Chiffon’s He’s So Fine, costing Harrison plenty.  (Question:  Since every blues song, either credited to Eric Clapton, Bob Dylan, Stevie Ray Vaughn, etc. are essentially the same song, based on a three chord progression, how are they not infringing upon someone’s copyright?)

The musical feud between Lennon and McCartney, with the hidden and often overt lyrical bombs hulled at each other is well known.  But it’s interesting that Harrison got into the fray first.  The All Things Must Pass album cover alone, could be seen as a declaration of a Harrison’s breaking free from the Fab Four (the four gnomes), but if that’s reaching, the lyrics to Wah-Wah are surely about Harrison’s frustration at being a Beatle.  The awful, muddy, wall-of-sound production not withstanding, Wah-Wah is a terrific rocker, with a cool guitar riff, and, what sounds like a great guitar solo, but who can tell with all that reverb? 

Another glaring song written about the turmoil that was the disintegration of the Beatles is Run of the Mill, found on side 3.  The tune itself would feel right at home in the Rubber Soul-ish era, but the lyric, particularly the stanza about “carrying the blame” seems pointed directly at McCartney.  But in the same stanza, where Harrison sings “Tomorrow when you rise/Another day for you to realize me/Or send me down again” could be aimed at John, the Beatle who couldn’t be bothered to participate in the recording of Harrison’s Beatle tune, I Me Mine.   (Itself a not veiled statement to the selfishness of his fellow Beatles.) 

It’s hard to understand how the Beatles’ passed up Isn’t It a Pity, which is, in my opinion, one of Harrison’ s greatest songs (including those recorded by the Beatles).  It’s such a good song that Harrison has two different versions of it on the album; one great and the other, classic.  Of course the “classic” version is the long, slow one, which closes out side one of the album.  It’s placement right after the aggressive Wah-Wah provides a bittersweet lament at the dissolution of, not the Beatles, but of their friendships.  The long fade-out, which culminates with the blending of the lyrics “What a pity” with Hey Jude’s “Na-na-na-na” is as brilliant as it is heartbreaking. And how great is it that it lasts one second less than the Beatles’ anthem.  My Sweet Lord may be Harrison’s most famous post-Beatle song, but Isn’t It a Pity is his best.

This is where the pause to turn an album over works to the album’s benefit. The album flip acts as something of a pallet cleanser, letting you savor the fade of Isn’t it a Pity, while also preparing you for the dynamic guitar riff opening side two’s What is Life.  Catchy as all get-out, lyrically it’s interesting, because, unlike so many of his other post-Beatle songs, What Is Life could either be a straight love song, or, yet another spiritual.  Written while he was still with the Beatles, apparently Harrison never offered it, which is a shame, because What Is Life has Beatles written all over it.

Speaking of offering tunes for The Beatles, their Anthology 3 collection contains Harrison’s solo demo offering of his song All Things Must Pass.  As can be heard on various “Beatlegs” from the Let It Be sessions, The Beatles had worked on the song a bit.  But by the rather lethargic playing, it’s clear that there was little interest from the group.  Lyrically both fatalistic and optimistic, the song, as recorded and produced on Harrison’s album, is not nearly as dreary as the demo and Lads’ versions.  Speeding the tempo a bit helps, and, for once, Spector’s over-producing somehow puts the focus on Harrison’s basic melody and lyric.

Let It Down, a song the Beatles briefly worked on during the Let it Be Sessions, , a Dylan cover, more decent songs rife with that portentous religiosity (Awaiting on You All being the best), the jaunty, jubilant ode to the die-est of die-hard Beatle fans, Apple Scruffs, and the only throw-away tune on the LP, I Dig Love, fill out the album(s) proper.  The final song, Hear Me Lord, is another song rejected by the Beatles during the Let It Be sessions.  An unabashed hymn, it’s frankly hard to imagine what Lennon would have made of it, and it’s not surprising that Harrison saved the song for himself.

Hot on the heels of Harrison releasing his masterpiece, Lennon releases one of his own.  A mere two weeks separate the massive, way-over-produced (but nevertheless brilliant) All Things Must Pass and the hauntingly sparse and brutally honest John Lennon/Plastic Ono Band (hereafter Plastic Ono Band).  Both albums are credited as being co-produced by Phil Spector, but, while his hands are all over the knobs on Harrison’s album, it’s hard to believe Spector had much, if anything, to do with the production of Plastic Ono Band.  Piano playing?  Yes.  Mixing?  Perhaps. Producing?  Except for the abundance of echo, Spector’s signature wall-of-sound is decidedly missing.  This lack of “production” is essential to the overall effect of the album.  Horns just won’t cut it on Working Class Hero.   

The first solo Lennon album I’d gotten was Imagine, and that, coupled with the various solo singles and his work with the Beatles left me woefully unprepared for Plastic Ono Band.  Known as the Primal Scream album (because Lennon had recently been going through, but never finished, primal therapy), the album hit me like the proverbial ton-o’-bricks.  Close to sixteen when I got it, the fatalistic, pessimistic (with some exceptions) songs didn’t just speak to me, they spoke for me.  Perfectly timed, smack-dab in the heart of my teen-angst years, Plastic Ono Band solidified everything I knew to be true:  Everything sucked.  Except for love.  (As a woefully shy teen who could barely look a girl in the eye let alone talk with one, I wasn’t so sure love really existed.  But I’d given Lennon the benefit of the doubt since he was so right about everything else sucking.)

Basically, when it came to Plastic Ono Band, pretty much every song, I imagined, was about me: 

Mother.  She and I were just starting what would be a few years of our love/hate relationship.  

The title Hold on John was simply changed to Hold on Kev.  (With the lyric “Hold on Yoko” being changed to the name of the girl—who shall remain nameless—I had a crush on at the time).  

I Found Out.  Well I did.  And with Lennon’s help, I found out even more.

And then there’s Working Class Hero.  Forget the commentary on the middle and working classes, this was a song about the hierarchical clique structure in High School.  Not one but two F-bombs about summed it up.

Isolation.  Yep.

Remember.  It’s interesting how, at sixteen, one can pine for the better days.

Love.  As mentioned, I had my doubts.  But girls were just all so great… It was fun to dream it was real.

Well Well Well.  Great song, but the screaming at the end was all that was necessary.

Look At Me.  Not sure how he did it, because we’d never met, but Lennon wrote this one specifically for me.

God.  Now here was a song.  My religious beliefs were never strong, and pretty much gone by the time I’d heard the song.  For me, Lennon’s definition of God was spot on.  As was the tossing aside of idols; that worked for me, too.  Until…  Then (and even now), while bellowing along with the song, I just couldn’t bring myself to sing “I don’t believe in….Beatles.”  Because I did.  I did believe in Beatles.  And still do.  The Beatles especially kept me sane, along with Alice Cooper, Bowie, Zeppelin, Floyd, etc. including Dylan (I could sing, “I don’t believe in Zimmerman” but wouldn’t if it were “Dylan.”  Hey, my teen-angst singing, my rules.)  But nothing got me through those years better than Plastic Ono Band.  The album is surely one of my Desert Island Disc selections.  In fact, it’s the first.

My Evolution Revolution of the Solo Fabs (Or Imagine Living in the Material World, say London Town, with Beaucoups of Blues) Part 2

I think it’s interesting that the first solo single released by one of the Beatles is Lennon’s, Give Peace a Chance.  As simple as it is powerful, it shows Lennon’s amazing ability to come up with positive, life affirming slogans, á la All You Need is Love, and turn them into easy to remember and easy to sing anthems.  My first exposure to the song was from Lennon’s first “greatest hits” collection, Shaved Fish, which oddly only consists of the first minute of the song.  (There’s a “reprise” at the end of the album, from a version of the song performed live.)  That one minute excerpt was more than  enough for me to run down to the local Sam Goody and pick up the 45.

About a month after the release of Abbey Road, Lennon released Cold Turkey, one of my favorite, if not the favorite, solo Lennon tracks.  I’m not sure what the distinction is between pop and rock (although, akin to Supreme Court Justice Stewart’s definition of pornography, I knows it when I hears it), there’s no doubt that Cold Turkey is a balls-to-the-wall, guitar shredding, vocal chord-tearing rocker with a capital ROCK.  Play Loud indeed.

We’ll dispense with the Fabs solo soundtrack and “experimental” albums, all of which I have, but none of which ever made it through the rule-of-the-3.  Indeed, I’m not entirely sure I made it all the way through Life With the Lions.  The Wedding Album, however, I distinctly remember my father poking his head in the room and shaking his head in bewilderment as John shrieked “Yoko” and Yoko bellowed “John” for the entire album side.  But I only listened to that once.

Only a month separates the release of The Wedding Album and Lennon’s Plastic Ono Band/Live Peace in Toronto, half of which continues to prove that Lennon was a rocker at heart and half of which proves that Yoko wasn’t… Yet.  If there were a way to remove Yoko’s vocal “contributions” to Lennon’s side of the album, Plastic Ono Band/Live Peace in Toronto might rate as one of the best live albums.  But even as is, Lennon’s obvious nervousness in his introduction is as endearing as it is honest and funny.  As the concert progresses, you hear Lennon regain his confidence and, frankly, have a ball.  And that’s infectious.

Lennon’s Instant Karma is the next solo Beatle recording released.  (Don’t worry, the other Fabs’ will have their due.  It’s just that Lennon seemed to be particularly prolific in 1969.)  For a song written and recorded in one day, Instant Karma is pretty amazing.  Once again, Lennon has an instantly singable anthem (“we all shine on”), and he delivers an impassioned vocal that’s hard to beat.  Not that produce Phil Spector didn’t try.  Spector applies his heavy-handed wall-of-sound with aplomb.  The song is awash in echo, and Lennon’s spirited vocal is hollowed, which, in this case, actually works for the song because, added with the sing-along chorus, Instant Karma has a ‘live in the room with you’ sound. 

 First up on the solo Beatle releasing a traditional music album is Ringo.  If it were released now, Sentimental Journey would just be another one in the plethora of pop-star-assailing-the-Great-American-Song Book collections that would overflow the cut-out sections of record stores, if there were still cut-out sections and record stores.  But being released in April 1970, I have no idea what the unsuspecting Beatle-buying public could have made of Sentimental Journey.  All I know is that when I got it, probably sometime in 1975, I was hard-pressed to apply my rule-of-the-three.  Simply put: Sentimental Journey is awful.  And it’s pretty much the worst way possible to be introduced to some of the classics from The Great American Song Book.  As I was.  I’m still scarred.

Two weeks or so after Ringo released Sentimental Journey, Paul came out with McCartney.   It’s a good, if slightly uneven album.  It does sound like what it is, an album recorded with a single 4-track machine, with Paul playing all of the instruments.  There’s little in production, and many of the tracks sound like demos, which in and of itself is not a bad thing.  Essentially McCartney sounds like a basement tape.  Maybe I’m Amazed is clearly a standout track; so much so, that it feels a bit out of place.  As simple as it is, I love the guitar solo, which helps to catapult the song to near-classic status.  Another favorite of mine is Oo You.  Interestingly, upon hearing individual songs out of context, they seem to have more vibrancy than when sequenced on the album.  Check out the Jerry McGuire soundtrack album to see what I mean

A mere six months after releasing Sentimental Journey, Ringo returns with Beaucoups of Blues.  To say it’s better than Sentimental Journey is not saying much, but Beaucoups is considerably better, and ranks as one of Ringo’s best solo outings.  Admittedly I'm not much of a fan of country music, but it’s clear that the format, and song selection is right in Ringo’s wheelhouse, especially considering all of the C&W songs Ringo recorded with The Beatles.  (Act Naturally, What Goes On, Don’t Pass Me By).  I like the waltzing title song, which was released as a single, and it’s the flip side of that single, Coochy Coochy which is my favorite. (It’s included on the CD remaster as a bonus track.)

In our next, not-to-be-missed installment, George Harrison, finally, with his epic All Things Must Pass.

My Evolution Revolution of the Solo Fabs (Or Imagine Living in the Material World, say London Town, with Beaucoups of Blues) Part 1

I think it was the great film writer/director Cameron Crowe who said on the commentary track for his film Vanilla Sky, that, and I’m paraphrasing, “over the course of your lifetime, the Beatle you consider your favorite may change.”

Now you don’t have to be the Amazing Kreskin to figure out that, at least at the time of the commentary’s recording, Crowe was referring to Paul McCartney.  This amazing feat of mind-reading comes from knowing that McCartney had contributed the title song to Crowe’s film.  (The song Vanilla Sky was nominated for an Academy Award, losing to Randy Newman’s If I Didn’t Have You from Monster’s Inc.)  It might also help to know that Crowe included a couple of McCartney nuggets in his film Jerry Maguire; so it’s a pretty safe bet that Crowe’s favorite Beatle had changed, over time, to Paul McCartney.  

But which Beatle had been Crowe’s favorite?  While it surely could have been Starr or Harrison,  my guess, based on nothing but my afore mentioned Kreskin-esque ability at mentalism, is that Crowe’s favorite Beatle was John Lennon.

I come to that conclusion because I’ve recognized that I’ve gone through a similar evolution.  For years, decades in fact, I’ve considered Lennon to be my favorite Beatle.  Actually that’s not quite right.  As a true-blue dyed-in-the-wool Beatle fan, I was, and am, adamant that I do not have a favorite Beatle.  Favorite Beatle songs, favorite albums, yes, of course.   But my favorite Beatle is the Beatles.

Now my favorite solo Beatle…..   That’s a kettle-of-fish-of-a-different-color.

I was ten-years old when I discovered The Beatles, which was in 1973, when the Red 1962-1966 and Blue 1967-1970 compilation albums were released.  At that time, my favorite Beatle, hands down, was Ringo Starr.  My reason?  Ringo was obviously the funniest Beatle in the Saturday morning cartoons.  (Much like Peter Tork was the funniest, ergo best, Monkee.)  I was sure, indeed never gave it a thought, that it was Ringo who sang every one of the Beatle songs that were part of each cartoon episode.  Why I thought that I don’t recall, but I do remember believing that Ringo was the head cheese of the band.  To me, it was Ringo Starr and The Beatles.  In fact, I was influenced enough by Starr that I wanted to become a drummer, something which pleased my father no end.  (Someone really has to invent a sarcastic font.)

I got the Red 1962-1966 collection first, and upon opening the double album, was horrified at what I’d seen in the gatefold.  Next to the listing of each song, every single one, were the names Lennon and McCartney.  Now at the time I had no

idea that the names next to the song indicated the song’s writers—who cares who wrote the song?  I’d thought that those were the names of who sang the song, and was more than disappointed that the great Ringo Starr didn’t sing a single one.  My favorite Beatle was just the drummer.  (But, and this was considerably more important than who sang a silly song, Ringo, on those Saturday morning cartoons, was still the funniest.  No disputing that.)

It didn’t take me long to sort out the writing credits versus who sang what song. (I was quite relieved to learn that Ringo did, indeed, sing, what I then considered the greatest song ever:  Yellow Submarine.)  And, like the millions before and millions after, I succumbed to the magic that was The Beatles.  Between birthdays, Christmases, and various other gift-receiving events, it wasn’t too long before I owned the entire Beatle catalog, including both the U.S. and English releases.

So basically, by the time I reached the ripe old age of fifteen, I was ready to venture out of my Beatle cocoon and purchase my first non-Beatle album:  Band on the Run.

By sixteen I not only had all of the Beatle albums, but all of those recorded by the former Beatles to date.  (Not including Lennon’s Two Virgins or Life With the Lions, which I would obtain later.  Unfortunately.  But including Ringo’s Sentimental Journey and Beacoups of Blues.  Unfortunately.)  Of the “solo” albums, I naturally had my favorites, but they were spread among the four lads.  Band on the Run;  All Things Must Pass (but passing on the third “live jam” album); Ringo; and Imagine, (which was quickly replaced by Plastic Ono Band, the album that got me through my teen-angst years.)

So still, not a favorite Beatle; solo or otherwise.

And then came December 8, 1980.

While the ‘who’s better, John or Paul?’ battle between fans had been going on since their breakup (and probably before), after Lennon’s murder, the subject of ‘who’s better?’ was understandably no longer up for debate.

While singing the praises for Lennon, however, McCartney’s solo efforts, including those with Wings, unfortunately, took it a bit on the chin.  It didn’t help that Lennon’s death ushered in the uninspiring 80s, which saw only one great McCartney album (Tug of War) and a handful of descent songs, but the 80s, almost universally musically, sucked.  (R.E.M excepted).  But after Lennon’s death, even McCartney’s contribution to The Beatles was greatly reduced, in the minds of many critics and fans.  So much so, that despite vocal-shreading rockers like Long Tall Sally, She’s a Woman, I’m Down, Helter Skelter and Oh! Darling (among many others), McCartney was often relegated to position of Beatle Balladear.

Time, as Nick Lowe so elegantly put it, wounds all heals, and McCartney eventually regained his rightful place as Beatle Extraordinaire.  He continues to record and release music, which has earned considerably more critical respect than much of his earlier solo works.  And, while never one to shy away from, what often seemed like a rivalry with Lennon, with each passing year, McCartney no longer has to compete with the spirit of John Lennon.

As fans, more than enough time has passed to allow us to consider, or more accurately, reconsider, the music Lennon released with less bias brought on by emotion.  We can judge the music as we had when it was originally released, on its own merits,  At least mostly.  Nostalgia now plays a significant role.  But it’s the the same nostalgia which blankets all of the solo recordings released before that horrible December night in 1980.  

It was in 1976 when I had caught up with all of the back catalog recordings by the solo Beatles, so I am as familiar with them as I am with the Beatle catalog itself.  As one might expect, favorite songs and albums have changed.  But, since my favorite solo Beatle was Lennon after his murder, and considering Cameron Crowe’s hypothesis that one’s favorite Beatle may change over time, I think it’s time to reevaluate, or, at the very least, compare and contrast the works of the solo Fabs and see if minds have changed.          

So let’s.  But in part two. 

The Beatles: The U.S. Albums--Something New?

Question:  How many versions of I’m Only Sleeping should one have?

If you answered correctly and said “all of them” then The Beatles: The U.S. Albums will be somewhat of a disappointment.

While the 2009 release of the remastered Beatles Collection in both stereo and mono editions remain the gold standard, there was a substantial part of the Beatle catalog that still needed to be dusted off and released.  Eager American Beatlemaniac Baby Boomers looked forward to hearing the Beatle songs the right way, as they were released in the good ol’ U.S. of A.  The songs need to be in the right order, on the right albums and with lots and lots of reverb.  Well, the Beatle Boomers, judging from social media and Amazon reviews, are not uniformly happy, and it’s causing a bit of ado and oodles of confusion. 

  

The brouhaha over The U.S. Albums stems from the fact that they don’t accurately represent the Capital albums we know and love.  You know, the albums with Duophonic Stereo and/or Fold-Down Mono that were all heavily saturated with glorious reverb verb verb verb verb…. 

On The U.S. Albums, the reverb-a-go-go pretty much went-went.  Well, not all of it.  But enough for those who were looking forward to basking in the glory of the muddy-sounding Fabs of yore.  I mean, The Beatles Second Album never sounded so good.  And that's bad.  Kinda.

(Baskers note:  The collections The Beatles: The Capitol Albums Vols. 1 & 2 contain the first eight original albums released in the states on Capitol Records.  Each album is presented in both the beloved faux Stereo and/or faux Mono mixes.  With the reverb!)   

So what gives with The U.S. Albums?  As with the above mentioned Capitol Album collections, each album in The U.S. Albums contains both the mono and stereo versions.  However, it was decided that the duophonic and fold-down mono versions of the lads tunes would be avoided, and in their stead would be the 2009 remasters.  (Except for Help! and Rubber Soul, which, for some reason, seem to be George Martin’s 1987 mixes.)  But, any tune that was specifically mixed for the U.S. is what is used.  (Huh?)

Basically, if Capitol received a mono version of Twist and Shout mixed for the U.S., that mono version is what you hear when playing the second track on The Early Beatles.  But the stereo version, which was Duophonically created in the laboratories at Capitol and used on the actual “stereo” LP, is not the “stereo” version used in this collection.  Instead the true stereo version is used, which is the exact same mix found as the last song on the 2009 CD release of Please Please Me.  Capiche?

Now the good news is that many of the wacky mixes found on the U.S. albums are here; just not represented in both mono and stereo.  For instance, the long (and non-double tracked) version of And I Love Her on Something New is here in mono, which is how it was mixed and sent to Capitol.  The stereo version, however, is the shorter, 2009 remastered version.  (This means, reverb fans, that the reverbiatastic versions of She’s a Woman and especially I Feel Fine are here, albeit just in mono.  The stereo versions lack reverbiatisity.)

It comes down to this:  Any tune that good ol’ George Martin and the Lads sent to the U.S., be it a stereo or mono mix, is used.  Any tune that was tinkered with at Capitol, turning a mono tune to “stereo” or visa versa, and therefore not approved by Martin, is not used.

So, while The U.S. Albums is a good collection, it only partially represents what was heard in the states.  No question that by not using any of the faux stereo/mono versions, The Beatles’ music is presented the way they intended and not the way the head honchos at Capitol thought would sell better in the states, making them (the honchos) more dinero.  

But….  If you are used to, and love the albums as presented by said honchos,  you’d best pick up the Capitol Albums Vols. 1 & 2.  Alas, though, there is no Vol. 3, which means that you will be missing two essential Capitol Beatle albums, one interesting collection, a soundtrack, and one of the most cynical, money-grubbing suedo “documentary” albums those honchos at Capitol could conceive to exploit the unsuspecting, Beatlmania-infected American public.

They are:

Yesterday and Today.  This is the album with the infamous butcher cover,  the cover which is(!!!!) included!  (Kudos to the producers who also include a sticker of the replacement cover.) 

Revolver

Hey Jude

A Hard Day's Night (the U.A. release)

The Beatles Story ("It started in Liverpool, England..."  Blah.)

So, if you have The Capitol Albums Vols. 1 & 2, is it worth picking up The U.S. Albums?

Well, how many versions of I’m Only Sleeping should one have?  The U.S. Albums gets you one closer, but it’s still not “all of them.”

(FYI: All of the albums in The U.S. Albums are available individually, with the exception of…  (gag) the “documentary” one.)