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.)

  

A Chorus Line (or two)

Once a week, our fifth-grade class lined up at the door (in alphabetical order of course), and quietly made our way through the halls of the elementary school (peaking into each room as we passed, ready to make a face if we caught the eye of any of our classmates), down the stairs, and to the music room.  Resplendent in musical instruments, including percussion (!), and filled with those adult desks, (the kind where the chair and desk were attached, the desktop coming off of the right hand side, which was convenient for we righties as it allowed us to rest our elbows), music class was generally considered something special.

During one class, the teacher made an announcement, telling us that there was going to be a singing group made up entirely of students from schools in our town, and that the four "best" singers in our class were going to get to participate. 

Essentially there was a class sing-off, with all of us bellowing simultaneously. (I forget what we sang, but it was probably something like Row Your Boat.  Although I do distinctly remember, as a class we learned the song I'd Like to Teach the World To Sing.  Try as she might, however, the music teacher couldn't stop us from adding the "Coke Is" bit from the current ad campaign that used that tune.)  

Coke really IS.

As we all sang, the music teacher went around and listened to each of us, trying to determine the four "best."  As we were an elementary school, and thus had no sports teams, etc., competing to get into the All-Wayne Chorus was pretty fierce.  Well, as fierce as a singing competition between eleven-year olds could get.

Preakness Elementary School, where my singing career peaked.  

                                                                            

With three students chosen, including one of my good friends, I knew that, as the teacher approached to listen to me, I had to pull out any and all of the stops I had.  Red-faced as I gave it my all, she listened, paused, walked away to listen to some one else, came back, listened again, walked away again, came back one last time, listened, watched the intensity in which I bellowed each syllable, and (I'm sure more because of my earnestness rather than any talent)… selected ME!

Being a full-fledged member of the All-Wayne Chorus, one of four students representing our elementary school, brought a lot of responsibility.  Well, mostly it required the four of us to give up a smattering of afternoons to practice with the other "winners."  To be fair, it was kinda okay.  Our mothers took turns chauffeuring us back and forth to the auditorium where we practiced (I don't recall where exactly), and it helped that two of us were from the same neighborhood.  (Indeed, her team beat us in that year's Whiffle Ball World Series--a corker if there ever was one.)

What Linus said.

While many of the particulars have vacated my memory (including where the actual concert was held), I do remember many of the songs we sang.  And, more importantly, I remember many of the arrangements; many of which have haunted me ever since. 

Inchworm, a song I'd already known because it was featured in the Danny Kaye film Hans Christian Andersen (which aired every year around Easter time) was sung in counterpoint, which was kinda neat, unless you got stuck, as I did, having to sing the basic math part: "Two and two are four; four and four are eight; eight and eight are sixteen; sixteen and sixteen are thirty-two…" repeat.  (Admittedly, the math has stayed with me.  So there's that.) 

Since the movie Oliver! hadn't made it to TV yet, I was not familiar with Food, Glorious Food.  A decent tune, with the highlight coming near the end where we sang "food, glorious "fooooooood" as if we were on some kind of musical roller coaster.   That cascading "foooooooood" has popped into my consciousness many a time since the days of the AWC, particularly whenever I hear  someone say the word "food," which, fortunately is a word rarely uttered.  Not.  The best I can say about "foooooooood" is that it's just one word, albeit, the way it's sung, a pretty long one.  But it's fairly easy to resist singing it aloud, and, while it makes an appearance with a certain regularity as an ear worm, it rarely lingers for long.

An actual photograph of the All-Wayne Chorus.  That's me, second from the right.  (Handsome, no?)

Not so with the other song that not only continues to haunt, but is also perfect fodder for Sir Earworm.  Earworms, plural, is more precise, because this song is not only as long and insidious as the dreadful Twelve Days of Christmas, but it too, has twelve stanzas; after all, there are twelve signs of the zodiac.  And all of them have, at one point or another, been an ear worm for me.  Horror-scopes from the lot.

Before fifth grade, I had never heard the Zodiac song before.  And since the AWC, I haven't heard it since.  Oh, but in my mind's ear, I've heard it.  But plenty.

As I'm hearing it right now.  Even with Mick Jones exclaiming that "you didn't stand by me" from my stereo's speakers (helping to mitigate the tinnitus), I still hear that confounded Zodiac song.  Most specifically, and for reasons I can't explain, I'm "listening to" the Zodiac sign that visits me with a disturbing regularity:  "Cap-ri-corn the Bull.  Cap-ri-corn the Bull.  Cap-ri-corn the Bull."  Bull is right….

Having said that (a phrase I'm beginning to abhor), I suppose being frequented by the Zodiac-ical earworm is a small price to pay after having had the opportunity to shine as a prodigious member of the All-Wayne Chorus.  Fame has its costs.

Since I’m not sure even what the name of that Zodiac song was, or whether or not it has ever been recorded, you, my oh-so-fortunate reader will be spared this particular ear worm.

But you are not getting off the hook that easy.  Here’s the other ear worm that haunts me from my days of the illustrious All-Wayne Chorus:

R.E.M.embering....

 I was aboard the R.E.M. express pretty much from the beginning.  I mean, who could resist Radio Free Europe, right?  And Murmer, their first album, still ranks as among the very best debut albums.  (Right along side such heavy hitters as: Patti Smith's Horses, The Ramones, The Clash and Zeppelin's self titled debuts [Oh, and The Velvets' too.  And the Pretenders.  There are a lot of great self-titled first albums, no?], Are You Experienced?, My Aim Is True, Big Pink et al.  Ah, let us not forget [if I'd let you] Please Please Me [or, if you prefer Meet The Beatles*] as well as the Peeg's Dry.)

(Not only a great album but also
 a great album cover!)

Like those debuts, Murmur is as good, and probably better, as a whole, then when singling out individual songs.  Of course individually, each song can easily stand on its own, too.  But together, particularly as an LP, where song one on side one opens with the four beat being hammered in on the snare and then the explosion of guitar, bass and vocals demanding that you "Decide yourself if radio's gonna stay" to the melancholy fade out of Perfect Circle, which, on LP, lingers as one turns the record over.  And then on to side two, with the upbeat Catapult thru the nearly sing-a-long finale (at least in the chorus) of West of the Fields, Murmer is as dynamic as it comes.

Of course, in my humble (and correct) opinion, all of the albums by R.E.M. hold up extraordinarily well.  Even the weak ones.  (Of course the weakest R.E.M. album is light years ahead of most band's best.)

Naturally, since I brought it up, you want to know which R.E.M. album I considered their weakest.  I honestly can't say.  Just as I can't say which is my favorite.  (Okay, if you put the thumb screw to me--and if you know me well, you know you only need bother with the one thumb screw--I will say that I think the mix on Fables could have been better.)  The fact of the matter is, even the plethora of non-album tracks the band recorded (and made available on various reissues and B-sides), are great.  (The exception being Moon River, found on the reissue of Reckoning.  But that's not R.E.M.'s fault; I simply can't stand the lyric "my huckleberry friend." It ruins a perfectly okay tune.)  And before I get the inevitable barrage of outrage demanding "What about Shiny Happy People?" let me just say, I think the song is fun and funny.

So, why the REMembering?  (Surely a name that the band could have used for one of their many compilations.)  Well, it's like this:  For several days now, Captain Earworm has insisted on playing and replaying the line "Not everyone can carry the weight of the world" from the great song Talk About the Passion.

Now, as when I get infested with earworms featuring The Beatles, I can generally force the earworm to play most, if not all of the R.E.M. song that has planted itself in my brain.  And that's exactly what I did with Talk About the Passion.  While in the shower, sudsing up what's left of my hair, I bellowed "Not everyone can carry the weight of the world."  (Repeat and rinse.)  And after the repeat of the line, I was able to follow it with "Call me in, call me in, call me in to talk" and head right into the chorus, "Talk about the passion…." 

And while the earworm insisted on putting the entire song on an endless loop, I decided I liked the song enough to try and learn it on the ol' guitar.  A google moment away, I had a complete tab of the song and happily began to work my way through it.  Except right away, I saw that there was something amiss.  The lyrics were wrong.  I mean, everyone knows the song begins "Empty bread, empty mouths, call me in [f]'or action" and the pre-chorus echoes that by ending with "call me in, call me in, call me in to talk…"  So what the heck is this "combien" that the internet insists is the correct lyric?  I mean, even my Mac continues to change "combien"  to "combine," which is proof positive that this "combien" is wrong.  And the pre-chorus line, "Combien, combien, combien de temps?" What the heck is that?  Spanish in an R.E.M. song?  I no creo!  

Okay, so google tells me "combien des temps" is French, so Je ne crois pas!  (Thank you google translate.)

After checking many sites, it appears that the French is correct, which means that R.E.M. violated rule number one in lyric writing: 

(Gratuitous pix of Britt.)

1.  No foreign language shall be used in a pop/rock song except, of course, the "Voulez-vous coucher avec moi, ce soir?  Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?" in Lady Marmalade  (either version), and any and everything Britt Ekland whispers in Tonight's the Night.  Faux foreign language, as used frequently by John Lennon (see: Across the Universe) is also permissible.

Now it's likely that because the violation was on their first album, R.E.M. was spared the wrath of the Rock 'n Roll's Federation After Unwarrented  Xenolalia Per America's Standard (FAUX PAS).  It's even more likely folks simply thought the words were "call me in to talk."

I know that's how I'm continuing to sing it.  At least until ol' Col. Earworm brings on another tune.

*Yea, I know, technically the debut album for the Lads' here in the states is Introducing The Beatles.

                                                                     

Yellow Submarine Sandwich

A few weeks back there was a Doonsbury comic strip where the punch line included the fun of having tinnitus.  (There's a link in one of my blog entries somewhere.)

Well this week, the great comic ZITS (one of the best drawn strips, too) is doing a series on ear worms.  Check it out:

http://zitscomics.com/comics/august-26-2013/

Made me laugh out loud.  And I particularly like that's it's a single panel, and rather than spelling out what song is stuck in Dad's head, instead one has to be familiar with the Beatles' Yellow Submarine cartoon to get the gag.  

The next strip encourages Dad to sing the song that is stuck, and naturally he bellows the all too familiar "We all live in a yellow submarine..." chorus, much to the chagrin of his son Jeremy, who is afraid the ear worm could be infectious.                                            

C'mon everyone!  "We all live..."

The rest of the series is equally amusing and rings true to what is generally true for folks suffering from earworms.  

And Yellow Submarine is an inspired, yet perfect choice for the earworm.  Who hasn't had that chorus spinning around in their noggin' at one point or another?

(From memory) No Reply.  Side One. First Song.  Time: 2:19

 Given my almost fanatical devotion to the lads from Liverpool, it's probably no surprise that their tunes often wind up being my earworm-de jour.  Although, at least since my hearing loss and the daily visit from ol' Maestro Earworm, Yellow Submarine itself hasn't been infused in my skull; though I have no doubt it will be at some point.  Why Don't We Do It in the Road and No Reply have each made at least a few appearances.  And at least twice the lines "block that kick, block that kick" and "you, you become naked" from Revolution 9 played some havoc with me.


But generally, when it's the Fabs' inhabiting my earworm-hole, I almost don't hear them at all.  I just know the songs so well, I guess, that even when the earworm needle wants to stick on Lennon's singing "…but it's my pride.  Yes it is, yes it is, oh yes it is, yea", as it did this morning, something inside of my brain bumps the needle, allowing the three-point-harmony of the lads' to continue singing, "Please don't wear red to-night…" and I essentially get the full tune.

Of course the song is set on repeat, it is an earworm after all, but, as I said, I hardly notice it.

At least in comparison to my usual regime.  "And what's more, it's true.  Yes it is."