Review of "The Beatles Solo: The Illustrated Chronicles of John, Paul, George, and Ringo after the Beatles"

(This review was originally published by PopMatters).

More than other works of non-fiction, Beatles books need to justify themselves. With such a preposterous glut available and new installments joining the ranks every few months, it’s not enough – or shouldn’t be, anyway – for authors and publishers to simply coast on the Fab Four brand (redoubtable though it may be). What results from the industry's cynical, because-we-can mentality is that, for every Tune In – a rigorous history tome that actually boasts original research – there are dozens and dozens of superfluous offerings like 100 Things Beatles Fans Should Know & Do Before They Die or The Beatles in 100 Objects. Curious about the band’s horizontal pursuits? Randy Scouse Gits: The Sex Lives of the Beatles will fit the bill. All four of these titles hit shelves last year. The point almost states itself: The Beatles are the greatest band in pop music history, but enough is enough. These days, "a must read for Beatles fans" loosely translates as "coming soon to a used bookstore near you."

The Beatles Solo is more of the same, even with the minor caveat that author and journalist Mat Snow recounts the less familiar post-Fab existences of John, Paul, George, and Ringo. Yes, here are the messy, far-ranging, often fascinating solo years … treated to summaries that don't rise above the level of slight and perfunctory. Each exceptionally slim volume of this four-pack has the weight and feel of a glorified Wikipedia synopsis. Sure, they're longer, more polished, and heavier on opinion (sometimes gratingly so, as I’ll detail later), but surface-skimming is still the dominant mode. George’s historic Concert for Bangladesh walks away with three pages of actual text. Macca's fruitful and varied run since the turn of the century? Six. And, predictably, very few of the particulars will be new to Beatles enthusiasts.

But not everyone is a fanatic. What about less avid (but still interested) types who might have use for a primer that encompasses Imagine and Red Rose Speedway, the Traveling Wilburies and the All-Starr Band? This was probably Snow’s guiding concept for The Beatles Solo, and it’s appealing in theory. But there’s a small complication: the list price of $50. In addition to the hyper-abridged career bios, each book comes attractively decorated with an array of photographs: individual shots, album artwork, advertisements, concert footage, movie scenes, etc. Snow didn't skimp. And the whole package is housed in a nifty slipcase that features stylized caricatures of the Four on the front. In terms of production values, The Beatles Solo grades out as first-rate. But these enhancements also inflate the book's price tag to the point where it's completely at odds with the introductory spirit of Snow's mini histories. There’s a clash of visions at work. The generous eye candy notwithstanding, who would want to shell out top dollar for a mere token tour of post-Beatledom?

That tour unfolds along roughly these lines for each Beatle: auspicious success early on, followed by creative misfires, commercial washouts, and personal failings, followed by renewal and resurgence rooted in lifestyle changes and new outlets. Despite my criticism of Snow's reductive modus operandi, there is some truth to the general pattern.

For instance: John hit his solo artistic peak with John Lennon / Plastic Ono Band and Imagine, his first two proper LPs – and two of the finest issued by an ex-Beatle. He then bottomed out as a songwriter on 1972’s Some Time in New York City – an instantly fossilized overdose of radical chic – and as a responsible adult from ‘73-‘75 during his “lost weekend”, a dissolute 18-month separation from Yoko that found Lennon rampaging and recording in L.A. with Ringo, Harry Nilsson, and other notable rock ‘n’ roll debauchees. As Snow writes, John was “losing himself in vodka, Brandy Alexanders, and marching powder, yet clearly having no fun at all.” Realizing he’d gone astray, John eventually reconciled with Yoko before shunning the music business altogether and retreating into a 5-year period of Mr. Mom domesticity. (His second son, Sean, was born in late ’75.) John’s return to the spotlight, punctuated by 1980’s Double Fantasy, was of course tragically short-lived.

How about a less-chronicled example? Mr. Starkey’s career has veered from smash single "Photograph" and the rest of Ringo to a spate of flop records, even worse films, and alcohol abuse to sobriety, the touring bonhomie of the All-Starr Band, and reruns of Shining Time Station. A long and winding road, if you will. But not in Snow's handling.

(Side note: Of late, Ringo has been locked in a public contest with Yoko to see who can invoke peace and love more frequently. Hey, I hope they both win.)

It’s to Snow’s credit that, despite furnishing only bare-bones sketches of the solo years, he didn't go down the path of hagiography on top of that. The Beatles Solo is a warts-and-all retelling. But that’s not to suggest he’s evenhanded in his treatment of each Fab. The short version: Snow is emphatically *not* on Team Paul. And his repeated underlining of this fact grows stale in a hurry.

Comparing Paul’s “Too Many People” and John’s “How Do You Sleep?”, which both were aimed at the opposite party, Snow opines that at least the Imagine broadside “was written in blood and acid in contrast to the vanilla essence that flowed through Paul’s writing.” Indeed, kudos to John because he was by nature an asshole and thus a better one than Paul. Or how about the implication that when John reached #1 on the charts, it was born of his high-minded artistry; but when desperate-to-please Paul did so, he had only his shallow “craft and whimsy” to thank.

Lastly (though there are more illustrations), observe this line: “Though somewhat fragmentary and oblique, in keeping with the movie footage, George’s Wonderwall music (sic) held its own when compared with Paul’s 1966 soundtrack for The Family Way”. But why compare the two at all - they aren't remotely similar - unless the sole purpose was to take a needless and immature potshot at Paul? Snow couldn’t help himself, it seems. I mean, go ahead and stake a claim to your favorite or least favorite Beatle - confession: I've never really connected with the Quiet One - but please don’t be so cheap and frivolous when making your case.

In the most significant sense, Snow said too little with The Beatles Solo. And in a far more trifling but obnoxious way, he said too much. Beatles books are rarely win-win propositions. If you're a solo-years novice and a handsome but information-light and overpriced doorstop sounds satisfying, then The Beatles Solo will suit your tastes. If not, look elsewhere. You won't have to contend with a shortage of options.

More on Mark Lewisohn's "Tune In"

Before Tune In was released back in October, The Telegraph ran a series of excerpts from the book. You'll find a sample below.

- "The making of Lennon"

I didn't know about these circumstances of Julia's death: She likely wouldn't have been on foot if not for her then-husband being stripped of his driver's license. "Twitchy" (as John called him) had recently been cited for drunk driving. And the reason Julia was out and about at all that night was to ask her sister Mimi if John could move back in with his aunt. Hard times financially. An already very sad story becomes even sadder.

- "The birth of the band"

Excerpt: Through sheer force of personality, John Lennon changed others’ lives, and many went willingly on the journey. For Paul McCartney, who had a fundamental need to be noticed, stepping forward with John was a natural move – he was aligning himself with someone people couldn’t avoid, and who thrust two fingers up to things in a way he envied but would rarely do in full view. At the same time, Paul could apply gloss, where needed, to minimise John’s trail of damage. Their musical group was formed in John’s image and driven ever onward by his restlessness, but without Paul he would have upset too many people too many times to make the progress they both craved. Paul’s other strengths were his great talent, his burning ambition and his high self-regard, and when John felt them becoming overbearing he’d pull him down a peg or two, as only he could.

- "The Sixties Start Here"

Fun fact: "Murry Wilson agreed the Beach Boys’ contract with Capitol Records on 10 May, the day after George Martin, in London, offered Brian Epstein a Parlophone contract for the Beatles."

Book review: "Lucy in the Mind of Lennon"

While reading Tim Kasser’s Lucy in the Mind of Lennon, a slim but detailed “psychobiography” about John Lennon and the disputed meaning behind “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds”, I kept veering between two poles.

At many turns, I wanted to follow Kasser down the rabbit hole into Lennon’s messy, complex, deeply scarred psyche to glimpse behind the curtain of “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds”. As much as the late Beatle has been written about and lionized over the years, he remains an extraordinarily compelling figure. Beyond the astounding talent and personal magnetism, Lennon was just so human (“insecure, anxious, and vulnerable” in Kasser’s sober estimation), and his life was riddled with fascinating twists and turns.

And then there’s “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds”. What a song! Weird, eerily cryptic, and bursting with psychedelic whimsy, “Lucy” is a first-ballot Beatles classic. In contrast to much of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, it has aged quite well.

If these winning elements are in place, then what accounts for my other reaction, which was wariness of Kasser’s analysis? The problem is an off-putting interplay that’s central to Lucy in the Mind of Lennon. Kasser isn’t some run-of-the-mill rock historian or professional Beatles fanatic. He’s a professor of psychology at Knox College in Illinois. Per the practices of a research psychologist, his approach to scrutinizing why Lennon composed “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” relies on statistical comparisons, the promiscuous use of charts, and data sets with names like “Standard Deviation of Recent Hit Songs”. It often has the feel of a plastic glove.

In essence, Kasser applies very clinical and invasive methods of inquiry to something that falls into the category of art. It's rock 'n' roll meets a psychology lab. For reasons that shouldn’t be hard to grasp, this jarring clash frequently left an unpleasant aftertaste.

The long and short of Kasser’s theory is that, when connected with Lennon’s distant and recent past, everything from the story, linguistic style, and word selections of “Lucy” to its key signatures and chord progression suggests that Lennon was addressing (though obliquely and at an emotional remove) his long-standing but long-suppressed hang-up with being abandoned by women. (“And she’s gone…”). This stemmed not just from the premature death of his mother, Julia, but in fact went all the way back to Lennon’s early childhood, when Julia was an on-again/mostly off-again presence in his life. The well-worn theories that involve LSD and the fanciful picture that Lennon’s son Julian drew aren’t dismissed outright, but Kasser instead ascribes them more of a facilitating function.

It’s a testament to my frustrating ambivalence about this book that, even as the form and feel of Kasser’s research steadfastly rubbed me the wrong way, I couldn’t shake how convincing and at times even illuminating parts of his argument were (his conclusion being no exception). The section that compares “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” to songs that Lennon wrote in subsequent years, from material off The Beatles to John Lennon/Plastic Ono Band, is especially insightful. It appears to demonstrate the significant degree to which Lennon’s changing circumstances – Cynthia to Yoko, LSD to heroin, etc. – influenced if and how he confronted his separation demons. In novel fashion, Kasser makes sense of the tortuous journey from “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” to the bleak, raw, and harrowing likes of “Mother” and “My Mummy’s Dead”.

At the same time, there are many moments when Kasser overreaches in his examination or leans too heavily on a very mechanical and insular understanding of the songwriting process. Take his observation that because the imagery John chose for “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” doesn’t better reflect the “typical” experience of an acid tripper, it undermines the LSD theory. Even if you accept the notion of a “typical” acid trip, who’s to say one or more of Lennon’s wasn’t wildly different because of any number of random variables? Or, even if “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” was based on a “typical” experience, maybe the words he decided on for the lyric were the product of multiple influences operating on him at once. Like too much of the book, it’s all so overdetermined, so biased toward order, so A must yield B must yield C. Kasser rarely gives any weight to chance, chaos, and the unpredictable.

Some interesting questions arise: How comfortable are you with the idea of an artistic creation being so thoroughly probed and explained away that it can be reduced to a series of chartable findings? Does this rob art of its distinct magic? And, contra the conceit that everything has to bear deeper meaning and we should leave no stone unturned in arriving at a final interpretation, is there perhaps value in deferring to mystery for why specific words were chosen or how a melody was constructed? The overarching question seems to be: What is the appropriate intersection of scientific inquiry and art?

How you respond to these questions may be a reliable gauge for how much stock you’ll put in Lucy in the Mind of Lennon.

Henry Grossman and The Beatles

These superb shots are the work of Henry Grossman, a photographer who trained his camera on The Beatles frequently in the mid-to-late '60s. Go here for more pics. This past December, Grossman released Places I Remember: My Time With The Beatles, which features over 1000 images from his collection.

"The John Lennon Letters"

I didn't read all of Hunter Davies' The John Lennon Letters, just skimmed it. Going through the many missives that John wrote to various family members and fans struck me as a tedious and repetitive process. I also didn't think I would miss out on much by paying little attention to the doodles, to-do lists and other ephemera that pad the book. In all, I probably read one-eighth of the letters, focusing on those of substance and historical significance, like ones dealing with The Beatles' breakup. It's the approach I'd recommend if you're curious about the book. Some thoughts below.

- Whether it be a love note to Cynthia, a brief fan-mail response or a heated dispatch to Paul (see "the John rant"), the letters convey an essential element of John's personality: he operated at the extremes. When he was affectionate, he didn't skimp on giddy, boyish yearning. When he was goofy, he was an exceptional nutjob. When he was defensive about Yoko, he let no criticism, whether real or imagined, go unmet. In this sense especially, John's letters were an honest reflection of who he was.

- It's tough to read John’s loving words for Julian (“He’s a real living part of me now”) and not think ahead to their sad estrangement. John even mentions how guilty he felt about not always being there for his young son. One wonders to what degree that guilt waxed and waned throughout the remainder of his life.

- Davies points out that John was closer to Ringo than were Paul and George. I wasn’t aware of this. It’s something he attributes to Ringo’s wit and his ordinary, salt-of-the-earth character, both of which John appreciated. In one letter to Ringo, John simply wrote: “Keep off the grass.”

- John to Linda Eastman: “I know The Beatles are ‘quite nice people’ – I’m one of them – they’re also just as big bastards as anyone else – so get off your high horse.” John was quite nasty to Linda in this instance.

- Reading his letter to Huey Newton, a co-founder of the Black Panthers, I almost felt bad for John. From the way he addressed the letter (“Dear Comrade Huey”) to how he halfheartedly noted the political nature of some songs off Some Time in New York City, it's obvious that the radical pose John had adopted was forced and unnatural. Even if his heart was in the right place, he just wasn’t the activist type. Like other movements and practices that he dabbled in, John’s radical chic-ness eventually went by the wayside.

- I didn’t know that John and Yoko stayed in constant contact during his "Lost Weekend." Davies writes, “John and Yoko talked by phone every day, sometimes up to 20 calls.”

- Todd Rundgren on John: “John Lennon ain’t no revolutionary. He’s a fucking idiot.” Come on, Todd, how do you really feel about him?

- John on Mimi: “She still thinks I’m an idiot who got lucky.”

- In one section, Davies tells a fascinating personal story about writing obituaries for each of The Beatles after Brian Epstein died. What a job that must have been.

- Finally, near the end of the book, Davies shows a to-do list that John wrote that includes tasks like calling an HBO cable guy and something about Hertz Rent-a-Car. Seeing familiar brand names like those in connection to John’s daily life was oddly disconcerting. Even though I’ve listened to his music on countless occasions and read so much about him, John is still a distant, mythic figure to me. Knowing that HBO and Hertz occupied his thoughts on that occasion (and presumably others) lessens the gap between John's life and the life of someone like myself. It happens in two ways. First, I think of John as someone belonging to the Sixties and Seventies - decades prior to my birth. But, for me, the HBO tid-bit has the effect of bringing him more into the time-frame of my life and the specifics of my world. That perceived overlap has a weird feeling about it. Second, the items on his to-do list are such ordinary concerns. Even if we’re well aware that our heroes are merely flesh and blood, it can be comforting and rewarding to still hold them on high. When quotidian details like an interest in premium cable puncture that mystique, we feel closer to them, which again doesn't seem quite right.

. . .

For more on the book, go here and here.

Hunter Davies on John and Paul

A money quote from The John Lennon Letters:

Their friendship, love for each other, collaboration always had inherent elements of rivalry, competition, jealousy. They were different characters, with different strengths, talents, and beliefs, so it was surprising they stayed so close, worked so well, for so long. John felt that Paul had a tendency to be too smooth, superficial, charming and glib. Paul felt John could at times be too brutal, cruel, unfair. In truth, each of them could be like the other.

Quote of the day

From James Parker's review of Lennon, the new biography of John written by Tim Riley:

And yet Lennon in certain aspects was really quite hateable. Cruel at times, chaotic, dissociated: on his bad days little more, so it seems, than a gigantic human flaw through which the shifting light of genius displayed itself.

"Revolution in the Head" - Part 1.2

One feeling I've had in response to reading Ian MacDonald's Revolution in the Head is a pleasant sort of shame. Whether you agree with his conclusions or not, it's undeniable that MacDonald thoroughly knows The Beatles' catalogue, and what this can lead to is him essentially telling you, on grounds or in terms you hadn't previously considered, why you like a particular song or why it's so compelling. You might adore "It Won't Be Long" and have well thought-out reasons for doing so, but MacDonald will supply you with better, more incisive ones. It can leave you a bit embarrassed, but you should also welcome the new perspective.

A notable example comes in the section on "From Me to You." MacDonald writes: Like most of Lennon and McCartney's few recorded full fifty-fifty collaborations, FROM ME TO YOU proceeds in the two-bar phrases a pair of writers typically adopt when tentatively ad-libbing at each other. The usual result of such a synthetic process, in which neither contributor is free to develop the melody-line in his normal way, is a competition to produce surprising developments of the initial idea. As in I WANT TO HOLD YOUR HAND, the variation surprise in FROM ME TO YOU consists of a sudden falsetto octave leap, a motif first tried on the chorus of PLEASE PLEASE ME (itself rewritten in this to-and-fro fashion) (pg. 78).

Let me first say that I've long considered "From Me to You" one of the Fabs' strongest early-period songs. When I wrote about it here, I highlighted some of the parts that MacDonald emphasized, like the falsetto ("The breezy joy they were undoubtedly experiencing reveals itself throughout the song. It's in the high notes that John reaches for on the harmony"). In short, I felt I knew exactly why I appreciated the song so much. But then I read MacDonald's take and found out differently. He nails it: it's not just the mere inclusion of the giddy falsetto that makes the song; it's the "surprise" of it, the way it seems to come out of nowhere.

The author elaborates: Yet where the Americans built falsetto into their four-part harmony, The Beatles wielded it as an isolated device, and it was mainly these sudden hair-raising wails that made their early records so rivetingly strange (pg. 79).

MacDonald makes it all seem so obvious.

"Revolution in the Head" - Part 1.1

A major factor in the appeal of Revolution in the Head is the way that Ian MacDonald structured it. As I mentioned in a previous post, MacDonald tells the story of The Beatles through their songs - every one of them. Not only does he analyze them in detail, but because he goes in the order they were recorded, he's also able to piece together a narrative of the band's history. Thus, in the section on "My Bonnie," you learn about both the song itself and The Beatles' formative years in Hamburg, including their time spent as the backing band for British rock 'n' roller Tony Sheridan. MacDonald rightly judged that the historical context for these songs was too important to ignore.

So far, I've only made my way through Please Please Me, which entails recordings from the summer of 1961 to early 1963. My thoughts on this part are below.

- People like to snicker at Decca's rejection of The Beatles in early 1962, perhaps thinking that what's obvious to us now should have been obvious to record labels then. Not so. MacDonald provides some context:

From pgs. 49-50: Forced by the Decca engineers to use the studio equipment rather than their own battered Vox amps, The Beatles were unable to reproduce the energy and dirty, overdriven sound which made their stage-act so exciting. Nor were they helped by a recording regime which budgeted for one take per song and no overdubs.

And from pg. 53: The first prerequisite for an early Sixties recording contract was presentability: potential 'artistes' had to be 'professional', i.e., musically competent, groomable, and acquiescent to the demands of their producers who, it was assumed, would select their songs for them from batches circulated by writing teams through the normal channels. Loud, long-haired, and seemingly incapable of desisting from laughter, The Beatles did not meet these requirements. Nor, at this stage, did they have much going for them as songwriters.

- MacDonald's description of an early Beatles backbencher, "How Do You Do It?," is dead on. I can't imagine a band sounding more pleasantly bored than The Beatles do on this song by Mitch Murray. MacDonald writes that it "revolves around a shamelessly bright, breezy, and childish G major tune" and that the Fabs' rendition "ingeniously combines obliging efficiency with affable indifference." Best of all, he notes its "faceless catchiness" (all from pg. 57). There's something both infectious and soporific about the song. It's that rare ear-worm that could put you to sleep.

- It's bizarre to think that, in 1962, "Love Me Do" was "extraordinarily raw by the standards of its time" (pg. 59). It now seems so sedate, so earthbound. MacDonald closes the recap of the song with this: "The first faint chime of a revolutionary bell, LOVE ME DO represented far more than the sum of its simple parts. A new spirit was abroad: artless yet unabashed - and awed by nothing" (pgs. 60-61).

- I was pleased to find that MacDonald had such high praise for "There's a Place," the song I consider the best original on Please Please Me. As usual, MacDonald was forceful with his opinions, venturing that "There's a Place" was "an assertion of self-sufficient defiance which, matched by music of pride and poignancy, marks a minor milestone in the emergence of the new youth culture" (pg. 65).

- I must part ways with MacDonald when he implies that Arthur Alexander's version of "Anna (Go to Him)" is superior to The Beatles'. Between the two, I'd say it's a wash when it comes to the verses and chorus (which are basically merged into one). But John's impassioned, yearning, and needy delivery on the "middle sixteen" (pg. 73) - "All of my life...."- decisively swings the contest in The Beatles' favor. He kills that part.

- Finally, MacDonald on the sublime creation that is The Beatles' version of "Twist and Shout": Yet the result is remarkable for its time: raw to a degree unmatched by other white artists - and far too wild to be acceptable to the older generation. As such, it became the symbolic fixture of the group's act during Beatlemania: the song where parents, however liberal, feared to tread (pg. 77).

Weekend reading #2

From Jewish Ideas Daily, here's a review of a newly released book, John Lennon and the Jews.

Side-note: It seems that the primary placement of John's name in the title strongly oversells his role in the book. But the phrase "John Lennon and the Jews" does have a compelling ring to it.

Excerpt:
The book is an extended defense of passionate love for the Jewish people, written by an American immigrant long settled in Israel, a highly-respected professor of Arabic literature and Islamic history who also happens to be the 1983 International Frisbee Golf Champion (Junior Division) and a former member of the IDF's tank corps. Maghen's target audience is the population of tepid, English-speaking Jews whose love for their people has been displaced by the dictates of universalism and rationalism—a cohort whose instincts I know intimately.

John Lennon and the Jews opens with Maghen's chance meeting, real or imagined, at Los Angeles International Airport with Shira, Ofer, and Doron: "three Hebrew Hare Krishnas," dressed in regulation saffron robes. Maghen can't stomach that these young Israelis have abandoned Hebraism for Hinduism. Whipping out a Bible, he proclaims "This is your book!!!" But the three, dreaming of a world without nations, borders, or hierarchy—in short, the world evoked in Lennon's famous thought exercise "Imagine" ("Imagine there's no countries . . . nothing to kill or die for . . . ")—aren't impressed. Shira presents a universalist challenge to Jewish particularism; Ofer goes on the rationalist attack; and Doron basically tells Maghen to chill out.

Reflecting on this encounter at LAX, Maghen contends that Lennon's "beautiful ballad is in reality a death-march, a requiem mass for the human race." His book is an extended defense of this position, presented in three parts, each a response to the arguments laid out by Shira, Ofer, and Doron, respectively.

"Revolution in the Head" - Introduction

As I mentioned in the introductory post for my Revolution in the Head reading-project, Ian MacDonald opens his book with an essay on the 1960s, examining the decade (the "Disappearing Decade") as a period of momentous change, a battleground for future ideological clashes, and The Beatles' moment. I just finished the piece, and I'm still trying to process all of the material that MacDonald covered.

In truth, it should be book-length. Condensing a cultural history of the '60s (and one, no less, that burrows into the past - the Beats, the Angry Young Men, early rock 'n' roll, and more - and touches on aspects of later decades - punk rock, Reagan and Thatcher, etc.) into just under 40 pages is going to have some drawbacks. For one, MacDonald often speaks in very sweeping terms. Two, he doesn't leave much room for statistical analysis that would support the many bold claims he makes. Admittedly, citing tedious facts wouldn't fit his method, and it would interrupt the narrative momentum he builds by stringing together one provocative and confidently asserted opinion after another. Indeed, anyone reading this book should try to avoid being lulled into submission by the elan and certainty of MacDonald's literary voice. His writing style is charmingly verbose and extravagant - he's so convincing - but you have to stay aware of how generalized many of his statements are and how they frequently lack scientific corroboration. Had he spread the essay out over an entire book, some of this might be different. As it is, it needs to be read with an especially alert and critical eye.

That said, I did find many of MacDonald's points to be persuasive. His central argument is this: the true revolution of the 1960s "was an inner one of feeling and assumption - a revolution in the head" (pg. 27), not centering on hippies or New Leftists or any other ephemeral movement but rather mainstream society as a whole. Brought on by an historic rise in affluence and the aggressive advance of science, this revolution empowered "ordinary people" to achieve their "desires" (both pg. 36) but also spearheaded the breakdown of Western society by promoting self-determination, materialism, secularism and instant gratification. MacDonald further argues that no product of the '60s better captured and reflected the era's changes and vitality than The Beatles, who were so unorthodox, so new. Thus, the subtitle of the book: The Beatles' Records and the Sixties.

I'll stop there with the summary. If you're intrigued and want to know more, just read the book.

But before I dig into MacDonald's take on all of The Beatles' songs (which constitutes the rest of the book), here are some quick hits and random observations:

- I wonder if MacDonald too often conflates American and British politics when discussing the 1980s, the age of Reagan and Thatcher. Because of the pair's overlapping ideological visions, MacDonald seems to make few distinctions between the partisan battles that were taking place in the US and the UK at the time, possibly in error.

- As brashly opinionated as MacDonald is, it seems he harbors competing views on the '60s as a whole, one side of him being a non-establishment type and the other something of a moralist. This can lead to surprising, though not incoherent, shifts in tone.

- MacDonald's contrast of John ("sedentary, ironic") and Paul ("a natural melodist") is riveting (both 12).

- Lastly, a few thoughts on his prose. Where some writers might give you two or even three sentences, MacDonald often finds a way to piece together just one. He also has a weakness for superfluous but colorful adjectives and a knack for lively word combinations, "Euro-Maoism" being among my favorites. He applies it in earnest, while I think it could be used for strong comedic effect.

Next: The Beatles' "buoyant, poignant, hopeful, love-advocating songs" (pg. 37).

My next project: "Revolution in the Head"

Now that I've completed my Beatles haiku project, I'm moving on to something much different and far more conventional: reading and analyzing a book. Of the vast number of books written about The Beatles, it seems none has received more praise than Ian MacDonald's 1994 classic, Revolution in the Head. As many of you likely know, MacDonald doesn't deliver a formal historical narrative but instead uses a song-by-song examination of The Beatles' catalog to tell their story. I don't think there's a better approach if one's aim is to capture the band's essence; The Beatles are their songs. Furthermore, MacDonald opens the book with a provocative cultural analysis of the 1960s, exploring how the Fabs were central to the societal disruptions of that decade and what the ramifications were.

My plan is to read the book at a rather measured pace, take notes, and regularly post commentaries on what I find most interesting. Thus far, I've only made it through the two prefaces, but already I've been struck by MacDonald's insights about various topics: the importance of the UK's system of art schools in fashioning the whimsical, concept-oriented tendencies of British pop acts; the differences between British and American sensibilities in music (the former generally characterized by sardonic irony and the latter by earnestness and naturalism); and the best way to view The Beatles as lyricists (i.e., not as great but as effective). It's stimulating material, and I have yet to reach page one.

"The Lovely Linda"

Have a look inside Linda McCartney: Life in Photographs, a recently released compendium of Linda's work that Paul helped put together.

Details on "The Lennon Letters"

The Lennon Letters is the first collection of John's correspondences to be compiled, and it will be available in October of 2012 through the publisher Little, Brown and Company.

Excerpt:
In the release about "The Lennon Letters," the publisher points out that Lennon, who died in 1980, never had a chance to convert to email. He was inclined to reach for pen and paper:

He lived -- and died -- in an age before emails and texts. Pen and ink were his medium. John wrote letters and postcards all of his life; to his friends, family, strangers, newspapers, organisations, lawyers and the laundry -- most of which were funny, informative, campaigning, wise, mad, poetic, anguished and sometimes heartbreaking....many of the letters are reproduced as they were, in his handwriting or typing, plus the odd cartoon or doodle.

A clarification from Hunter Davies ...

... regarding the rights to John's letters and drawings that will be published next year.

Excerpt from this article:
“I just got back from holiday to read that Yoko Ono has, quote, “sold her late husband’s letters”. She has done no such thing" he said bluntly.

"This whole project is my idea and all Yoko Ono has done is agree to the idea and give me permission to reproduce them as, of course, she holds the copyright. She has not sold them, to me or anyone else, and it is deeply offensive to suggest otherwise”.

A CIA job?

Outlandish conspiracy theories often surface in the wake of prominent assassinations. The case of John's murder is no exception. A new book, John Lennon — Life, Times And Assassination, proposes the notion of a CIA hit on John with Mark David Chapman as the stooge.

Excerpts:
In a new book, author Phil Strongman claims that Chapman was a stooge. Lennon’s real assassin was the CIA — at the behest of Right-wing fanatics in the American political establishment.

He gets to this controversial conclusion by contesting many of the so-called ‘facts’ about the case — including the basic assumption that Chapman was a Beatles and Lennon fan.

. . .

Chapman, he suggests, had been recruited by the CIA and trained by them during his travels round the world, when he mysteriously pitched up in unlikely places for a boy from Georgia.

How strange, for example, that Chapman should visit Beirut at a time when the Lebanese capital was a hive of CIA activity — and was said to be home to one of the agency’s top-secret assassination training camps. Another camp
was supposedly in Hawaii, where Chapman lived for a number of years.

And who funded the penniless young man’s round-the-world trip in 1975, which took in Japan, the UK, India, Nepal, Korea, Vietnam and China?

"a real living part of me"

The excerpt below comes from a letter that John wrote to Cynthia in 1965. Julian published the correspondence in his recently released book, Beatles Memorabilia: The Julian Lennon Collection.

Excerpt:
“I can’t wait to see him (Julian), I miss him more than ever – I think it is been a slow process feeling like a real father! I spend hours in dressing rooms thinking about the times I’ve wasted not being with him – and playing with him. I keep thinking of those stupid b*****d times when I keep reading bloody newspapers and other s**t whilst he’s in the room with me and I’ve decided it’s ALL wrong.”

Go here for more.

Re: The Beatles vs. The Stones

Following up yesterday's post about The Beatles vs. The Rolling Stones: Sound Opinions on the Great Rock 'n' Roll Rivalry, here's The Boston Globe's (bloodless) review of it.

Excerpt:
As DeRogatis writes in his preface, the only real answer is both. So it’s not surprising that (spoiler alert) the book does not reach a definitive conclusion. Rather, “The Beatles vs. the Rolling Stones’’ stacks the two legendary acts head to head in chapters covering a rubric that includes the contributions of individual members, each group’s “cool’’ factor, and the role of drugs on their music. Though both DeRogatis and Kot confess to a personal preference for the Rolling Stones, this bias doesn’t prevent them from offering well-considered and, importantly, subjective debates for each set of criteria.

The Beatles vs. The Stones

For an informative and lively read, have a look at this Beatles vs. Stones exchange between Greg Kot and Jim DeRogatis, two veteran Chicago-based music journalists and co-authors of the new book, The Beatles vs. The Rolling Stones: Sound Opinions on the Great Rock 'n' Roll Rivalry. Most of it focuses on the relative merits of Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band and Their Satanic Majesties Request, which was, effectively, the Stones' response to Pepper.

Excerpt:
But even if the lesser moments are not A-level Stones songs — "On with the Show" could be dismissed as hokey vaudeville, "Sing This All Together" is basically an acid campfire song, and Wyman's contribution of "In Another Land" is evidence of why he doesn't have more song credits on Stones albums — they are less offensive than "When I'm Sixty-Four" or "Lovely Rita" and the other weaker moments on "Sgt. Pepper's." Here we are at the epicenter of the youth-culture revolt, the high moment of "tune in, turn on, drop out," and Paul McCartney is romanticizing being an old geezer and giving us a love song to a cop! And it doesn't end there. In "She's Leaving Home," he sympathizes with Mom and Dad rather than the girl who's setting off on her own in the first full blush of independence. Again and again, McCartney sympathizes with the establishment on "Sgt. Pepper's" rather the counterculture. Meanwhile, John Lennon is tripping like a wildebeest, writing one brilliant song about a circus poster ("Being for the Benefit of Mr. Kite!") and another, "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds," full of hallucinatory images and bearing the convenient initials L-S-D. Otherwise, he's pretty much missing in action.

Much of what DeRogatis, in the above excerpt, sees as flaws, I actually see as virtues (albeit mild ones). I like that The Beatles didn't make of Sgt. Pepper's a full-on counter-cultural statement, but instead gave us a proper Beatles album, complete with goofy songs by Paul and other material that didn't necessarily speak to the times. In fact, those thirteen songs aren't anything like sonic documents of the youth-revolt moment. Had The Beatles gone in that direction, Pepper would probably be perceived as even more stale, even more fly-in-amber than some already think it is. And, contra DeRogatis, I admire that Paul stayed true to himself with songs like "When I'm Sixty-Four" and "She's Leaving Home," and didn't feel the need to pander to rebellious youngsters. It complicates The Beatles' relationship with that moment, which I find interesting. DeRogatis also fails to recognize Paul's sympathetic treatment of the teenage runaway in "She's Leaving Home," i.e., "She's leaving home after living alone for so many years." That Paul sees both sides could be taken as a sign of maturity. Finally, how does DeRogatis not acknowledge "A Day in the Life" when discussing John's contributions to Pepper?. That's a major, major oversight.

"You Never Give Me Your Money"

It's a great song, of course, but it's also the name of a new book by Peter Doggett about the famously ugly breakup of The Beatles (I made mention of it a while back). Below is a pair of positive, in-depth reviews. Note to Hugo Lindgren of Bloomberg Businessweek: I read your piece with interest and learned from it, but the Metallica comparison was not at all instructive. Therapy?

From the LA Times:
But equally disruptive was the group's partnership agreement, dismantled only at the end of 1974. Until then, all four Beatles shared equally in the proceeds of one another's albums, guaranteeing resentment from the bigger sellers (Harrison and McCartney, primarily) as well as an abiding feeling of being trapped. How could they be considered to have broken up, "You Never Give Me Your Money" asks, when for years after their final recording sessions, they were regularly brought together for lawsuits and contractual negotiations and maintained a financial stake in one another's work? It was only in October 1996, after McCartney, Harrison and Starr finished work on the final "Anthology" CD set of unreleased outtakes and alternative versions from the Beatles archive, that Apple released a statement declaring, "The end has finally arrived."

From Bloomberg Businessweek:
Of course, money alone was too weak an incentive to keep the Beatles together. Although they disgraced themselves fighting over it, they always had plenty. Up until Lennon's murder in 1980, the Beatles were routinely offered giant sums to reunite, including a $30 million offer for a single album from David Geffen in 1974, which sounds like a ton of money even today.

Had they been less financially secure, the Beatles might have had no choice but to soldier on. That was the Stones' secret. As British music journalist Nick Kent describes in his recent memoir, Apathy for the Devil, Mick Jagger and Keith Richards couldn't afford their own Lennon-McCartney-style psychodrama. Around the same time the Beatles imploded, Jagger, writes Kent, "discovered that most of the money the Stones had made in the Sixties had been pocketed by manager Allen Klein along with all the rights to their recorded back catalogue."