To most Beatles fans, choosing between the songs of the Fab 4 is a bit like choosing between children. But, on CultureMap's "Playing The Beatles Backwards," one intrepid fan dares to rank the original songs of The Beatles and give his reasons why in a worst-to-first countdown. Every Saturday we'll reveal 10 of Jim's picks until we hit Number 1. Prepare to hit the comments to defend your favorites.
Song 185: “Revolution 9”
Album: "The White Album"
Shortly after recording “Revolution 9”, John Lennon allegedly went around telling friends that his new song was the music of the future. Well, here we are, 40 years later, and I don’t see the pop charts filled with experimental song collages featuring recording engineers, chanting football crowds, mangled orchestras, and bizarre non-sequiturs.
Most Beatles fans will defend “Revolution 9” as the group pushing the boundaries of rock music. But they had already proven countless times that they could do just that without inducing headaches in the process. I mean, really, is there anyone out there who can honestly say that they listen to “Revolution 9” and actually enjoy it? If you’re looking for a Japanese horror-movie vibe, maybe, but, as music that is pleasing to the ear, no way, no how.
Lennon also believed that “Revolution 9” was the bee’s knees because it was the type of music that anyone could make. But here’s the thing: The Beatles were great because no one made music like they did. In a million years, I could never reproduce anything that’s even in the ballpark of songs like “Hey Jude” or "In My Life." But, if you locked me in a room with a bunch of reel-to-reel machines and mikes, some generic classical recordings, a few cans of Jolt cola, and a chainsaw, I believe I could give a pretty decent approximation of "Revolution 9."
To novice Beatles fans, I warn you not to believe the hype about "Revolution 9." I’ve listened to it many times over the years, waiting for the light in my head to switch on so I could unlock its mysteries. All I’ve ever gotten out of it is the vague feeling that immediately after listening to it, something is going to rise out from under my bed and butcher me in my sleep.
And so, as John spookily says in the song (and I use that term loosely), “Take this brother, may it serve you well.” In fact, feel free to take it, because I just don’t get it and I never will.
Song 185: “Honey Pie”
Album: "The White Album"
If we could imagine"The White Album" as a poker game, then “Honey Pie” was Paul McCartney’s re-raise to John Lennon’s "Revolution 9." As in, "I’ll see your unlistenable, aggressively off-putting, avant-garde nonsense and raise you a piece of faux-vaudeville drivel so corny that Lawrence Welk turned it down for not being edgy enough."
What "The White Album" lacked was any sort of pruning process. The Beatles basically threw everything at the wall and kept it all in whether it stuck or not. Whether it was the frayed relationships of the band at the time, the absence of Brian Epstein, or just plain indifference, no one was ready to stand up and say that any particular song did not meet the band’s standard of excellence. And that’s why misfires like “Honey Pie” snuck by.
For what it’s trying to do, “Honey Pie” isn’t terrible. It’s just that it doesn’t belong. When Paul went down this old-timey avenue before with "When I’m Sixty-Four," it worked just fine because it was a better song and because it seamlessly fit "Sgt. Pepper’s" all-encompassing approach to pop music. But, despite its reputation as a progressive piece of music, "The White Album," with a few notable exceptions, is split pretty evenly between hard-rockers and gentle folk songs. When “Honey Pie” enters that mix, with its Prohibition horns and Paul hamming it up with embarrassing scatting and loopy falsetto, it’s jarring in the worst possible way.
Much has been made about hidden messages on "The White Album," and I’ve got one for you that you may not know about. If you listen real closely to "Honey Pie," you can actually hear the other three Beatles rolling their eyes as Paul sings. Short of that, there’s not much to recommend this one.
Song 183: “I Want You (She’s So Heavy)”
Album: "Abbey Road"
“Heavy” is the operative word here, isn’t it? “Heavy” as in "Heavy Metal," the musical genre that was, in 1969, just beginning to emerge from the primordial ooze in the form of Jimmy Page’s thunder-god guitar and Robert Plant’s banshee wails. “Heavy” as in “weighty” or "lumbering," because this song moves along like the proverbial beer truck underwater. And “heavy” as in "Wow, man that’s heavy," a dated slang term meaning “profound” or "deep."
Actually, maybe the word “dated” best describes "I Want You (She’s So Heavy)." Whereas most of The Beatles songbook is timeless and sounds as fresh today as it did 40 years ago, this "Abbey Road" track is still stuck in some clichéd version of the 1960’s. Cue the footage of JFK, dancing hippies and Neil Armstrong, and you can begin "The Wonder Years" episode any time.
What got The Beatles in trouble late in their career was that they occasionally forgot what they did best. In a misguided attempt to recapture their early days before big productions and theme albums and the like, they tried to make it happen by simply sitting down together in a room and playing. But this just led to noodling and jamming, the terms used by mediocre bands worldwide that lack great songs.
You can debate whether or not John Lennon’s simplistic lyrics here are powerful or painful (I think he nailed the to-the-point approach much better a year later on John Lennon/Plastic Ono Band). But it’s hard to deny that this song goes on interminably, and the feeling I get when that sudden ending comes up can best be described as relief. Just too heavy for me, man.
Song 182: “Yer Blues”
Album: "The White Album"
Boy, it really feels like I’m picking on Sides Three and Four of "The White Album" doesn’t it? Let’s just say that I share in George Martin’s contention that The Beatles should have separated the wheat from the chaff and come up with one really killer, hit-packed LP. Just think of all the unreleased stuff that could have been in the vaults for Anthology 4!
I think John Lennon got stuck between ideas here. Deep in his heart, I believe he wanted to expose some of the torment that he was enduring, the stuff that he always buried inside bouncy pop songs like "Help," but he just wasn’t quite ready to go all the way. Hence, you get astrological references and winking shout-outs to Dylan in the lyrics. The psychological revelations would have to wait until therapy and his solo career.
Meanwhile the music is as serious as a heart attack, and about as much fun too. The Beatles assimilated many forms of American music effortlessly, from country to Motown to, obviously, rock and roll. But the blues never quite fit into their wheelhouse. It feels like they’re trying way too hard here, and all that strain drains most of the emotion from the song.
At one point in the instrumental part, they kick free for a little bit and rock out, and it’s a nice break. But then it’s right back into that sludgy main riff. Lennon’s guide vocal can be heard in the distance in the final verse, straining to be heard over the pounding guitars and drums. That unintentional isolation spoke a lot more powerfully about John’s state of mind at the time than anything else this song clumsily attempted to reveal.
Song 181: “Good Day Sunshine”
Album: "Revolver"
Do you know those relentlessly cheerful people who mean well but really need a slap? We all have worked with one of these people at one time or another, the kind who ask how you’re doing and then are disappointed when you say you’re just fine, not super. They whistle while they pee, and make small talk for no reason whatsoever other than to incite latent homicidal impulses deep within your soul.
Well, those people would probably have “Good Day Sunshine” ranked much better than I do. After all, their mantra is right there in the first line: "I need to laugh." Nobody can possibly derive this much joy from the weather, can they?
Paul McCartney sings the title refrain about 20 times in the song, which is barely more than 2 minutes long. That’s happiness overload. Many Beatles songs evoke joy; this one shoves joy down your gullet until you beg for mercy. It sounds more like an advertising jingle than a rock song.
That said, I suppose there might come a day when I win the lottery, or the Vikings win the Super Bowl, or that annoying co-worker falls down the steps, when I’ll step out into the radiant afternoon and belt out “Good Day Sunshine” at the top of my lungs.
Nah, it’ll still be annoying.
