Tuesday reading

- "Beatlemania in 1964: 'This has gotten entirely out of control'" - Here's a vividly detailed first-look at The Beatles' maiden visit to the U.S., published in The Saturday Evening Post in March of 1964. What stands out most is that, even at this early stage of band's mega-prominence, the press had already identified the role of each Beatle - roles that quickly became familiar and overstated to the point of cliche. John as the intellectual, Paul as the Cute One, etc, etc.

- "The Beatles’ first U.S. concert: An oral history of the day the Fab Four conquered D.C."

Macca: The press conferences were quite funny. It was always: “Hey, Beatles, is that hair real, or is it a wig?” Well, that’s a very good question, isn’t it? How dumb are you? But we didn’t mind it at all. We expected it. It was a completely different world. It’s not like now where you’ll find all these kids writing for the Internet. It was elderly, balding gentlemen who smoked a lot — grown-ups looking disapprovingly at the children having too much fun. We knew it wasn’t hard to beat that kind of cynicism. It was like a chess game. And the great thing was, being four of us, one of us could always come up with a smart-ass answer.

- "The 10 Most Technically Amazing Beatles Songs" - I was delighted to see what song occupies the top spot of this list. Hugely underrated, imo; the atmosphere is matchless.

- Lastly, "Listen Closer! 35 Songs You Didn’t Know Feature Famous Background Singers"

Weekend reading

I've been meaning to post this for some time. It's an old book review (Helter Skelter) by The New Republic's William Crawford Woods that surveys the horror, mystery, and perverse fascination of the Manson Family murders. More specifically, Woods probes the link between the grisly killing spree and the '60s counterculture, exploring where at the outer limits of Peace, Love, and Rock 'n' Roll there might have been room for a deranged, bloodthirsty cult. It's a fascinating topic. Perhaps too much so.

Excerpt:

It is harder now than it would have been in the '60s to imagine children dumb or drugged enough to be entranced by such a story. But Manson had an old con's skill (he had spent most of his life in prison—had even begged to be kept inside before being released for his final killing spree) at picking the members of his band: the girls were young, homeless, fanciful, at war with their parents—the boys were kept in line by being given the girls. In the moonlit desert, in the ready-made romance of the decaying Spahn Movie Ranch, they would sit adoringly around Charlie and hear him make promises of a future that would give them the power they'd never had, heal wounds that burned fresh daily. There were drugs, sex in constant splashes every which way, and all the other sticks and carrots that kept the kids in line. But there was something else in Manson that could turn them from borderline psychotics into psychopathic killers of unparalleled cruelty. Bugliosi admits it, but he cannot quite say what it is.

Most likely no one will ever be able to. Unlike Bugliosi I doubt Manson himself is in possession of his "formula." The element of the demonic, introduced here to supply the book's only missing note, is not something any pragmatic intelligence feels comfortable with, but one glance at the famous Life cover photo of Manson is almost enough to make disbelievers switch sides. (It's included in the exhaustive photo section of this book.) I don't think there's any possible doubt that Manson was a demon—not possessed by one, was one. His hellish history makes any appeal to a supernatural principle superfluous; but having both motive and motive force behind it, we are still shy of understanding. To come closer to that we must close in on the ideational undertow of helter-skelter, the art where Manson's twisted art originates.

It is in music. Manson was convinced that the Beatles were sending him coded messages in support of helter-skelter, particularly in the double "white album" released in 1968; he took the term from one of its songs. As family members testified at the trial, he had worked out with scholarly precision correlations between his murderous doctrine and virtually every line of every lyric; more than that he had searched beyond his origins in the Beatles to their origins in the Book of Revelations, where in the ninth chapter he found the "four angels" with "faces as the faces of men" but "hair as the hair of women"; even mention of their electric guitars ("breastplates of fire") and much else besides. There was word of a fifth angel, and the family knew who that had to be. One translation of Revelations calls him Exterminans.

Revelations 9. Is it chance that the Beatles song Manson liked best is called "Revolution 9"? Or that the Bible chapter ends, "Neither repented they of their murders, nor of their sorceries..."? And the song ends on the grunting of pigs, and machine-gun fire?

A Concert for Linda

Ultimate Classic Rock recently commented on the 15th anniversary of "A Concert for Linda":

On April 10, 1999, Paul McCartney made his first public appearance since his wife Linda passed nearly a year earlier – and just his second in the two years she’d battled breast cancer – during a touching farewell concert.

...

McCartney was backed by members of the Pretenders, along with Costello, for his appearance. He dedicated his set to Linda, whom he called “my beautiful baby — and our beautiful children, who are here tonight.” He then joked: “It’s past your bedtime” before launching into Ricky Nelson’s “Lonesome Town” (a favorite of the couple’s as youngsters) amidst a standing ovation.

As he played an energetic version of the Beatles‘ 1963 hit “All My Loving,” many of the evening’s stars began to congregate on stage, joining in for a rousing chorus.

Because Paul has maintained such a visible public presence in the last decade-plus, it's weird to think there was a time in the near past when he just dropped out of view. The reason he did so couldn't be more understandable, but still. Anything that doesn't perfectly comport with the now-ingrained image we have of him - youthful, irrepressible, jet-setting, eternally carefree - takes time to compute.

Spotlight on Nilsson

Here's one more article about Nilsson, from Neil McCormick of The Telegraph ('Everything was sweeter with Harry'). For the piece, McCormick interviewed Van Dyke Parks and Jimmy Webb, two famous industry players who were tight with Nilsson. Their insights and remembrances really cut to the quick of Harry's bewitching charm (see below). I can say from personal experience that this charm rarely if ever ebbs. Once the Son of Schmilsson has you, he has you.

Excerpts:

- “It beggars belief that Harry has been misplaced,” according to Parks. “He was prodigious, indefatigable, astonishing for his raw intelligence and musical ability. It has become too easy now to talk about his addictive personality, nudge-nudge, wink-wink, but there was essentially a great talent. He was rock and roll but he was a romanticist, he had great elasticity, he could cop a feel, get a groove, put it in the pocket, get down with your bad self. He creates another world. Everything was sweeter with Harry.”

- “I don’t think there was anybody who could touch him as a singer,” according to his close friend, the great songwriter Jimmy Webb. “He had crazy, gymnastic effects that he could do, with a lot of vocal layering, little choirs of himself, everything so precisely lined up. He had this grace of moving from note to note, warbling and twirling, doing little imitations of birds, and then just screaming flat out so that it would tear your wig off. There was an unpredictability and effervescence and a tremendous range. He would get way down in his chest but nobody could sing higher. One of the problems is his performances were so great, they were like mountains. He didn’t just want to be remembered for singing a Badfinger song. But hey, he sang the shit out of it, man. He nailed it.”

- More from Webb: “He was very contagious, and people around him would all of a sudden find themselves having a great day. They might be jerked off to some improbable destination to something that they really hadn’t planned to do, but he was delightfully inventive when it came to, dare I say, wasting time.”

- Lastly, chew on this: "(Nilsson and John Lennon) shared an apartment with Ringo Starr and Keith Moon during Lennon’s notorious 'lost weekend.'" Good Lord. That's a madhouse. That's a den of sin. That's the Seventies in all of its dissolute, depraved, let's-not-do-that-again glory.

When Harry met John...

I can always go for more Harry Nilsson. His stirring, versatile, and oh-so natural voice. His oddball, sometimes sui generis style of songcraft. His storied antics. Etc. In my view, he's one of those rare artists whose lesser material still holds plenty of appeal simply because of the compelling personality behind the whole operation. It may not be a great song or a great album; but as long as it's a Harry Nilsson creation, that promises a different and often uniquely rewarding pop music experience. I just adore the guy, warts and all. Below I've collected a handful of recent articles that are about Harry or feature him in some way. All tie in with The Beatles to one degree or another.

- "Reports from Lennon's Lost Weekend: 'Don’t you know who I am?'"

I got a kick out of this line, which comes from a 1974 news story about John's "lost weekend": "Meanwhile that possible Beatle tour looks even more possible as reports filter about that all four of the Liverpool lads could use the ready cash flow such a tour would precipitate." Very possible indeed.

- "40 Years Ago: John Lennon, Harry Nilsson Tossed From Troubadour for Heckling"

Excerpt: "'I got drunk and shouted,' Lennon later remembered. 'It was my first night on Brandy Alexanders — that’s brandy and milk, folks. I was with Harry Nilsson, who didn’t get as much coverage as me, the bum. He encouraged me. I usually have someone there who says "Okay, Lennon. Shut up."'"

- "Unseen John Lennon letter complains about Keith Moon's rock'n'roll behaviour"

A short quote that basically tells it all: "Clearly John Lennon is blaming Keith (Moon) and Harry for urinating on the console...."

- "40 Years Ago: Ringo Starr and Harry Nilsson Release ‘Son of Dracula'"

Excerpt: "'We had this script, Drac takes the cure, marries the girl and goes off into the sunlight — and it was the only movie we wanted to make,' Starr later told Q. 'I called Harry because he was a blonde bombshell and we had his teeth fixed, which his mother was always thankful for.'"

- Lastly, "Harry Nilsson’s 13 Works Of Genius On Film"

"Nilsson! Nilsson for president!"

If you don't have the time or inclination to read Alyn Shipton's new biography of Harry Nilsson, you can still get your fill of the incomparable singer-songwriter through the superb reviews, commentaries, and excerpts that have accompanied the book's release. I've posted a handful below. Tie-ins with The Beatles are plentiful of course.

- Slate: "Lennon + McCartney = Nilsson"

- The New Yorker: "The Ten Best Lesser-Known Nilsson Songs"

- Daily Mail: "When Harry met... John, Paul, George and Ringo: The American Beatle's 18-month 'lost weekend' with Lennon." It's an excerpt from Shipton's book. I love this quote by Harry: "Ringo and I spent a thousand hours laughing." Those two shared a special and lasting bond.

- Grantland: "Deconstructing Harry"

These articles reinforce and deepen what Nilsson lovers (like myself) already know: Both as a person and an artist, Harry Edward Nilsson III contained multitudes.

For more on the American Beatle, go here.

Born on this day

Two titans of popular music entered the world on this day. Happy Birthday, Elvis (b. 1935), and Happy Birthday, David Bowie (b. 1947)! It's beyond me how January 8th is able to contain the historic greatness of both. Every other day of the year should take notes. Assorted links, etc. below.

Re: Elvis...

- Read about the day that Elvis and The Beatles met.

- Watch The Beatles reflect on the encounter.

- Here's Elvis covering "Yesterday" and "Hey Jude."

- John on the King: "Before Elvis there was nothing."

Re: Bowie...

- Here's a past birthday post I wrote that features some song links, including Beatles covers.

- Concerning the Beatles reference in "Young Americans."

- Concerning the (possible) Beatles reference in "Life on Mars?."

- Finally, here's one from the obscure file: Bowie performing a live cover of "This Boy." Though the sound is muffled, you can tell he's right at home, especially when the vocal goes big and expressive.

Merry Christmas!

In few hands but John Lennon's could this sad, maybe even spooky Vietnam protest song have become a Christmas standard. Happy holidays!

"Happy Xmas (War Is Over)"

(If the video is removed, go here.)

R.I.P., Ravi Shankar

The master sitarist and dear friend of George passed away on Tuesday at the age of 92. Below is some of the coverage of his death.

- NYT: "Ravi Shankar, Sitarist Who Introduced Indian Music to the West, Dies at 92"

Excerpt: Ravi Shankar, the sitar virtuoso and composer who died on Tuesday at 92, created a passion among Western audiences for the rhythmically vital, melodically flowing ragas of classical Indian music — a fascination that had expanded by the mid-1970s into a flourishing market for world music of all kinds.

In particular, his work with two young semi-apprentices in the 1960s — George Harrison of the Beatles and the composer Philip Glass, a founder of Minimalism — was profoundly influential on both popular and classical music.

- WSJ: "When Ravi Shankar Met George Harrison"

Excerpt: But when Mr. Harrison first approached Mr. Shankar for lessons in the mid-1960s, the idea of blending Indian classical music with pop music was puzzling to the sitar maestro.

“It is strange to see pop musicians with sitars. I was confused at first. It had so little to do with our classical music. When George Harrison came to me, I didn’t know what to think,” said Mr. Shankar in Raga.

“But I found he really wanted to learn. I never thought our meeting would cause such an explosion, that Indian music would suddenly appear on the pop scene,” he added.

- The Guardian: "Ravi Shankar: the Beatles' muse who turned his back on rock"

Excerpt: Harrison learned about Shankar from the Byrds and, after adding sitar lines to Norwegian Wood, the Beatle sought him out and later went to India for lessons. Shankar was now treated like a rock star, playing at the Monterey pop festival in 1967, then Woodstock and the Concert for Bangladesh at Madison Square Garden, and enjoying co-billing on Harrison's Dark Horse tour in 1974. It was then he decided that his career had gone horribly wrong. Western rock audiences decided India meant drugs and free love, and Shankar was shocked at the way his music was misunderstood.

"The association with India was so wrong," he once told me. "The superficiality of everyone becoming 'spiritual', the cliches of yoga … the Kama Sutra, LSD and hash … It was all against our music and our approach to music because we consider it so sacred." As for Harrison, Shankar said "he himself was very sorry and sad to see the way it was twisted and taken so casually. He never dreamed it would turn out like this."

- The Telegraph: "How Ravi Shankar was charmed by George Harrison"

Finally, here's George and Ravi together in an interview:

(If the video is removed, go here.)

The Beatles @ the 2012 Olympics

Paul was one of the major attractions at Friday's Opening Ceremony, but - from a Beatles-oriented perspective - it shouldn't be overlooked that the Arctic Monkeys also performed. That's because the popular British rock 'n' roll quartet played a cover of "Come Together." The studio version is below; it's a straightforward rendition. I hold the perhaps incautious opinion that Alex Turner's voice is one of the heirs to John Lennon's.

(If the video is removed, go here.)

Weekend reading

"Bias at Rolling Stone Magazine?" - a critical take on the mag's list of the 500 greatest albums of all time.

Excerpt: The Rolling Stone 500 would be easily dismissed as a marketing stunt were it not for the sad fact that the superiority of boomer-era rock is viewed by some as truth. These folks would agree with what Rolling Stone says about its top album: "'Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band' is the most important rock & roll album ever made"; it is "rock's ultimate declaration of change." No, it is not. It had predecessors that made it possible and that are thus at least as important. And "Sgt. Pepper" brought no greater change to rock and pop music than did subsequent recordings like "Crosby Stills & Nash," "The Ramones," Bruce Springsteen's "Born to Run," Michael Jackson's "Thriller," Nirvana's "Nevermind," Public Enemy's "Fear of a Black Planet" or Radiohead's "Kid A."

Sweep aside 45 years of almost-unchallenged praise, some of which has nothing to do with its 13 songs and 40 minutes of music, and really listen to "Sgt. Pepper." It is a great rock and pop album. But indisputably better than, say, "Kiko," a 1992 album by Los Lobos, or Björk's 2001 disc "Vespertine"—neither of which is among the Rolling Stone 500? Of course not. But the greatness of "Kiko" and "Vespertine" exist outside the confines of boomer-rock's narrow cultural context.

. . .

"White Elephants and Termites, Revisited" - a response.

Excerpt: The real question, then, isn’t whether the list is focused on commercial rock and pop. It’s whether the focus on the boomer golden age is justified within than context. Fusilli notes that “Of its 500 albums, 292 were released in the ’60s or ’70s, a highly improbable 59%.” But this is only “improbable” if you assume that achievements in a particular genre are randomly distributed across time. That’s absurd. Art forms have their periods of growth, maturity, and decadence. Fusilli doesn’t want to be believe that rock is in its decadence. He suggests, for example, that Los Lobos’ 1992 record Kiko and Björk’s 2001 Vespertine rival Sgt. Pepper. I have never especially liked the Beatles, and do love Los Lobos and Björk. But their work isn’t comparable in influence or technical innovation. Sgt. Pepper changed listeners’ understanding of what rock ‘n’ roll could be. Kiko and Vespertine, on the other hand, are just terrific records.

. . .

My two cents: When it comes to Rolling Stone, you should know what you're getting. For a long time it's been a thoroughly mainstream publication that, in terms of its music criticism, clings to past glories. The magazine's classicist biases - like awarding five stars to nearly every recent album by Bruce Springsteen - are well known and hardly worthy of a fuss. The pop culture mythology of the Boomer generation does make for an interesting topic, but no one should be surprised by Rolling Stone's dogmatic promotion of it. And besides, the vast majority of the albums on that list deserve the praise they received.

"50 Years of Rock 'n' Roll"

This past Thursday marked the 50th anniversary of the Rolling Stones' first concert, which was at London's Marquee Jazz Club. Of the lineup that survived the '60s, only Mick and Keith were involved, but the date still offers a moment to reflect on the band's legacy. Here is a look-back by author and journalist David Browne. And below are some posts I wrote that deal with the Stones in one fashion or another:

- "My favorite song at the moment" - It was "Under My Thumb," which I confessed with a certain degree of unease.

- "More on 'Under My Thumb' and 'Run for Your Life'" - I compared these two wicked, addictive songs.

- "'Death came to the party'" - I assessed the documentary Gimme Shelter.

. . .

There's obviously a lot of history between The Beatles and the Stones, much of which revolves around the supposed rivalry they had. I won't go into any of that here. Instead, I'll draw attention to the most direct and friendly connection between the two bands: "I Wanna Be Your Man." John and Paul wrote it, but they gave it to the Stones for their second single.

"I Wanna Be Your Man":

(If the video is removed, go here.)

Here's The Beatles' version:

(If the video is removed, go here.)

"Death came to the party"

In this post from late March, I made a passing reference to the "Manson murders." A few weeks later, I touched on The Beatles' breakup. Then last week, I watched Gimme Shelter, the legendary documentary about the Rolling Stones' U.S. tour of 1969 - the tour that concluded infamously amidst chaos and death at the Altamont Speedway Free Festival in northern California on December 6th. There's a common strand among these three events: the end of the 1960s as a period of youthful idealism and romanticized "sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll" liberation. Of the three, Altamont is most closely linked to the demise of that cultural moment, thanks in part to Gimme Shelter.

I hadn't seen the film prior to last week's viewing, but - like most students of rock 'n' roll history - I was familiar with the details. Presented as a series of quasi-flashbacks, Gimme Shelter follows the Rolling Stones as they traveled west across the U.S., starting with a performance at Madison Square Garden and from there always moving gradually, inescapably to the horror of Altamont. A sense of coming doom is the film's hallmark. It's there when the band plays in New York City; it's there when they review concert footage; it's there in the lazy, quotidian down time of the tour; and it's there, quite conspicuously, as harried negotiations take place to make "Woodstock West" a reality. (The concern voiced by various parties about logistics and safety can't help but seem prophetic.) From what I can gather, the motivation for Altamont was twofold: 1) the Stones had been criticized for high ticket prices and wanted to make amends; and 2) 1969 was the year of the free music festival: both Hyde Park and Woodstock had taken place that summer. In the film, Mick Jagger boasts that Altamont would fit the ethos of the festival movement, which was serving as "an example for the rest of America as to how one can behave in large gatherings." The road to hell is indeed paved with good intentions.

When the day of the concert finally arrives, there's still more cruel build-up to endure. The Stones didn't go on until well past dusk, giving ample time for tensions to brew between roughly 300,000 excitable, drugged-out fans and the Hell's Angels, who were hired as stage security - fatefully. Armed with pool cues and allegedly paid in beer (though this is much disputed), the Angels weren't looking to play nice. Before the Stones even stepped foot onstage, the scene turned edgy and violent. The Angels mocked the crowd - "We're partying like you" - and tussles abounded. Most notably, Marty Balin of Jefferson Airplane got knocked unconscious by one of the Angels. This prompted the Grateful Dead to bail on their performance. The Stones, on the other hand, had no choice but to play: though a gathering nightmare, Altamont was their brainchild. We all know what happened next: Several songs into their set, which had featured the sinister tones of "Sympathy for the Devil" and "Under My Thumb," an 18-year-old man named Meredith Hunter was stabbed to death by an Angel after he brandished a gun and fired off a shot. Seeing that a fight had broken out, Mick tried to calm matters down, but he wasn't aware of the gravity of the situation. He wasn't aware that Altamont had just been visited by murder. The Stones kept playing, confused and frustrated but not yet shaken to their core.

That moment seems to come near the end of the film as Mick watches video of the crime. He, as well as the viewer, sees Meredith Hunter charge the stage after being pushed back, with his gun clearly visible against a woman's crocheted top. We then see a knife-wielding Angel spring into action; one of the subsequent shots is a freeze frame of the knife held high, primed for a plunge. Finally, we see the knife viciously reach its target, not once but twice. Throughout, the shots are slowed down, rewound, stilled, and then played again. Mick's response: "It was so horrible," followed by the blankest of stares. It's also how the viewer is meant to feel. To watch an actual murder take place even on film is a powerful and sobering experience. I'll admit that, upon reflection, I found it unseemly how riveted I was by those images. Though the murder occurred under fascinating circumstances, death was still the final, gruesome result.

There are many other sequences that I won't soon forget. One of the most striking is when the Angels ride into Altamont, parting the crowd, engines blaring. In the words of Stanley Booth, it was like the arrival of "an invading army" - they heralded discord. Another portentous moment comes early on the day of the concert when Mick is making his way to the band's trailer and gets smacked by a fan. It's an eerie premonition of violence, befitting the occasion far more than the peace signs flashed in the crowd, which take on the feel of empty, feckless gestures. After the deed is done, emotions inevitably run high. There's a stirring shot of a young woman in tears, crying out, "I don't want him to die." Meredith Hunter did die at Altamont that day, along with three other people: two were victims of a hit-and-run accident and one drowned in an irrigation canal. Wikipedia adds: "Scores were injured, numerous cars were stolen and then abandoned, and there was extensive property damage." The final sequence of the film shows a stream of people leaving this calamitous scene. They were leaving the '60s.

What are we to make of Altamont? Who deserves blame for the chaos? Gimme Shelter implicates a handful of people while never fully assigning guilt. But it's hard not to read a great deal into a shot that comes right before the concert-goers are shown in exit. Mick and one of the directors finish going over the footage of Hunter's murder. As Mick gets up from his seat and starts to walk out, the camera focuses on his face. The shot freezes. He's not wearing much of an expression, but - unlike his blank stare from just moments prior - he doesn't look weary and burdened. Instead, there's a distant intensity to his gaze. Maybe it's a sneer. Maybe there's even a touch of evil present. It's a spellbinding shot, but its function isn't readily apparent. Co-directors Howard and David Maysles didn't need to include it, unless their intent was to urge viewers to consider Mick's role - his moral culpability - in the disaster of Altamont. After all, it would have been simplistic and inaccurate if they’d simply pinned all of the blame on the Angels. There are too many qualifiers down that path. (i.e., Yes, the Angels were rough with the crowd; and yes, it was one of their men who took the life of another. But they were in a difficult spot dealing with kids who were tripping on acid and amphetamines; and when the murder was committed, it was in response to Hunter’s show of violence. Moreover, they didn’t just show up unannounced; they were asked to be there.) Rather, I think the Maysles brothers were hinting at broader, more abstract themes, like the notion of rock 'n' roll as violent artistic expression. Maybe they didn't view the youth counter-culture of the '60s as a movement that was ever innocent. It did in fact celebrate excess, and mischief was part of its DNA. Maybe the Maysles brothers held its luminaries in contempt for what they had created but couldn't hope to contain.

Mick was obviously a consequential figure of the time. His style as a songwriter and performer was rooted in bravado, arrogance, even egomania. He enjoyed taunting his fans, filling their minds with dark, potent imagery, and then whipping them into a frenzy. Onstage he was like a populist tyrant, indulging his own whims while also satisfying those of the crowd. But peace couldn't be maintained indefinitely, and it's likely that the Maysles brothers saw the scene at Altamont as a microcosm of rock 'n' roll culture: it was thrilling but combustible. The drugs, the booze, the sex, the wild emotion - a tipping point was inevitable. Once there, the priests and prophets of the movement - the Mick Jaggers, etc. - wouldn't be able to tame the madness. They wouldn't be able to defuse the hysteria they had helped foment.** At Altamont, Mick was indeed helpless. In the face of upheaval, his calls to order carried no weight; in the face of death, his stage act came off as pathetically frivolous. With a murder taking place right in front of him, all of his panache and swagger was exposed as meaningless. In that meaninglessness perhaps lay some guilt. It's not for nothing that there are shots of fans shaking their heads at Mick, a newly fallen leader.

In the end, many were at fault to one degree or another: the drugged-out hippies, the drunk and violent Angels, the people who hired them, the festival planners, and Mick, along with the rest of the Stones***. I'm sure the argument has been made that the Maysles brothers somehow retroactively share in the guilt as well. After all, they profited from Altamont, which isn't without moral complications. And yes, it could be said that the viewer doesn't fully escape blame either. Why do we watch Gimme Shelter? It's not for the music - it's for the murder.

* - The title quote comes from Stanley Booth.

** - Some form of this interpretation is likely endorsed by Sonny Barger, a founding member of the Oakland chapter of the Hell's Angels who was present at Altamont. In his book Hell's Angel: The Life and Times of Sonny Barger and the Hell's Angels Motorcycle Club, he writes of the Stones: "They had accomplished what they'd set out to do. The crowd was plenty pissed off and the craziness began."

*** - Long live the incomparable Keith Richards!

Re: The Beatles and the Beach Boys

For the purposes of The Daily Beatle, my long-running Beach Boys kick will conclude with this post. Below is a rundown of basically every entry on the site that mentions the group once dubbed "America's Band."

- "There's a Place" vs. "In My Room";

- The BB's cover of "With a Little Help from My Friends";

- Another cover: "I Should Have Known Better";

- News about the original Smile being released;

- Today in music history: Pet Sounds;

- Yet another cover: "Tell Me Why";

- Marking Dennis Wilson's birthday;

- In praise of Pet Sounds;

- Brian Wilson, Rubber Soul and the '60s;

- Paul on Pet Sounds;

- Lastly, The Beatles and the Beach Boys.

The Beatles and the Beach Boys

As evidenced by a number of posts (here, here and here), I've been on a major Beach Boys kick the past couple months. I'm not exaggerating when I say it's been an immense joy. Elevated by sublime vocal arrangements, brimming with warmth and innocence, and graced by a hypnotically escapist sense of place, their music is without parallel. Outside of The Beatles, the Beach Boys are probably my favorite band. If you share this inclination even somewhat, you'd be well advised to watch Endless Harmony: The Beach Boys Story. I've seen it three or four times, and - in my opinion - it's a model rock documentary: It's thorough, entertaining, insightful, unvarnished, and all about the music. Amazon reviewer Sam Sutherland writes, "For the Beach Boys fan, this will be an essential companion to their enduring music." True enough; but because this is a Beatles blog, I want to highlight where the Beach Boys and the Fabs intersect in the documentary.

- When The Beatles conquered America in 1964, it changed life for the Beach Boys. Mike Love compares the impact to a "tidal wave." Other reactions: "jealous," "humbling," "a challenge."

- Speaking about Rubber Soul, Brian Wilson uses his standard line that he was blown away by the unity and coherence of the songs. Pet Sounds followed in its wake.

- Recalling his 1968 trip to Rishikesh, India with The Beatles and others to study Transcendental Meditation under Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, Mike Love describes how he helped Paul write "Back in the U.S.S.R." He suggested the bridge - "Well the Ukraine girls really knock me out..." - a Beach Boys-y touch that's obviously quite reminiscent of "California Girls." Returning the favor, The Beatles added some backing vocals that seem to pay tribute to Love and company.

- Included among the musicians and industry peers who share their thoughts on the Beach Boys is Sean Lennon, John's son with Yoko. His enthusiasm is noteworthy. He says that he listens to the Beach Boys' music everyday and couldn't possibly be down when doing so. He even refers to Smile as "the most amazing thing I've ever heard." Elsewhere, he recaps the familiar story of how Brian's experimentation on Pet Sounds inspired The Beatles to develop their sound.

...

Though not mentioned in the documentary, there's another famous moment when these two bands crossed paths (in a way), and it may have helped to alter the course of pop music history. Recounted here:

Pet Sounds spurred the Fabs to ever greater heights on Revolver. This arms race between the two titans of pop on either side of the Atlantic was not one that the Beach Boys leader was equipped to handle, however. He set to work on new material, but just as the pressure mounted to pull the project together in February 1967, he heard Strawberry Fields Forever on the radio. Wilson felt he couldn't compete, his mental state not helped by the marijuana that he had been smoking, and he abandoned the new record, provisionally titled Smile. The Beatles were in a new head space, and the carefree era of songs such as Surfin' USA was gone.

Wikipedia elaborates:

Another significant event, cited in the Beautiful Dreamer documentary, was Brian's first hearing of The Beatles' new single "Strawberry Fields Forever". He heard the song while driving his car, and was so struck by it that he had to pull over and listen; he then commented to Michael Vosse, his passenger, that The Beatles had "got there first". Although he apparently later laughed about that comment, the stunning new Beatles production had affected him deeply.

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In other Beach Boys-related news, I finally spent some time with The Smile Sessions, which is Capitol Records' reconstruction of Brian's discarded opus. What a strange, fanciful, ambitious, wildly original, even kaleidoscopic set of songs. Co-written by Brian and Van Dyke Parks, Smile might best be described as psychedelic frontier folk-pop. It's a very American invention, steeped in stateside mythology stretching back to the colonial era and Manifest Destiny; bucolic imagery full of romantic innocence; and religious themes. It's pretty unorthodox and esoteric stuff - a significant departure from the Beach Boys' previous album Pet Sounds, which itself was a departure for the band. This explains why Capitol Records (and Mike Love, for that matter) gave Smile a cool reception in 1966. Though it's an untouchable record that contains a number of classics ("Heroes and Villains," "Surf's Up," "Good Vibrations," etc.), it was never destined to be a chart-topper. But at least it has finally seen the light of day. Brian’s vision - his “teenage symphony to God” - is now reality, and I think it sounds beautiful.

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UPDATE: Another overlap between The Beatles and the Beach Boys occurred in 1966 when former (and future) Fabs press officer Derek Taylor was hired by the Beach Boys to promote Pet Sounds. As part of the campaign, Taylor touted Brian as a “genius,” in hopes that music critics would start taking the Beach Boys frontman more seriously. With a minor assist from Pet Sounds, it seems to have worked. (I came across this tidbit in the excellent documentary Beautiful Dreamer: Brian Wilson and the Story of Smile. I should note that both George Martin and Paul make appearances in it. Martin has a funny moment when he mock-complains about the broad scope of Brian’s talents, deeming it unfair.)

Brian Wilson, "Rubber Soul," and the '60s

I listened to Rubber Soul, and I said how could they possibly make an album where the songs all sound like they come from the same place. I couldn't deal with it. It blew my mind. And I said, damn it, I've got to do that. I've got to try that with the boys. - Brian Wilson

This quote comes from The Beach Boys and the Satan, a weird, poorly-named, yet interesting documentary that I recently watched. The eye-catching title is meant to convey both the good and the bad of what California represented as a pop culture idea in the 1960s. It started on a positive note: the Beach Boys were avatars of California fun, exporting sunny, innocent West Coast pleasure to the world and becoming hugely popular in the process. But much of that innocence was gone by the end of the decade. The hippie movement, once a source of "good vibrations" (kind of... arguably... according to some), had devolved into drugged-out, violent disorder, with the Manson murders serving as the death knell.

It’s an intriguing premise, but the film doesn't flesh it out. With a running time of only 50-odd minutes, there isn’t enough space for a full, coherent narrative to emerge from the two strands. The part about Charles Manson feels shoehorned in. Yes, he was an acquaintance of Dennis Wilson’s, but that’s incidental.

More than anything, The Beach Boys and the Satan functions as a psychological profile of Brian Wilson. The interviews with him - to no surprise - are the real draw (along with other cool footage of the Beach Boys). He’s so sincere and forthcoming; memorable moments abound. He talks candidly about his abusive father and admits that writing songs was, in part, an attempt to compensate for the lack of love in his life. He also addresses his drug use, at one point saying that he sometimes didn’t know if he was in a dream, tripping on acid, or just listening to a Phil Spector record. Elsewhere, he confesses to having been painfully intimidated by The Beatles and the Rolling Stones. In general, Brian was (and likely remains) very insecure. Combined with his substance abuse, it led to crippling anxiety.

We should all be thankful that Brian’s anxiety didn’t overwhelm him before he could make Pet Sounds. As the quote above indicates, Brian was capable of using competition to push himself obsessively to greater heights. It's a critical part of the story with Pet Sounds.

Lastly, one other point about The Beatles and the Beach Boys. I can’t remember his name, but one musician interviewed in the documentary sets up an insightful contrast between the creative environments of the two bands. As he puts it, The Beatles had two pop geniuses who collaborated and fed off one another; a producer in George Martin who maximized their talent; and a record label that, more or less, gave them full support. In sharp distinction, Brian was the lone innovator in the Beach Boys; he doubled as their producer; and he was often discouraged by Capitol Records (and Mike Love) from writing the kind of personal and complex songs that ended up on Pet Sounds and Smile. How much more might Brian have accomplished had he enjoyed The Beatles’ advantages?

"Such magical sounds"

An album that was both inspired by Rubber Soul and part of the motivation for Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band is always going to be relevant on this blog. On a personal note, this same album is among my favorites. It's one of the few collections of pop music that I consider nourishing to the soul. Indeed, I usually don't go three or four months without dipping into Pet Sounds, the Beach Boys' landmark psychedelic-pop release of 1966. I did so again last week with the intention of recording some thoughts and observations. Pet Sounds is an album one should not just know, but know intimately. It's a way of returning the favor to Brian Wilson for how revealing he is on these thirteen tracks.

A perfection-crazed auteur even at age 23 (23!) when he started the project, Brian has said that the music of Pet Sounds - marked by warm, wistful, whimsical soundscapes; the colorful and complex meeting point of Phil Spector, baroque, and found objects - is actually more personal than the lyrical content. Part of his ambition with the album was to almost make lyrics unnecessary. Using the studio as one of his exotic instruments, he wanted the music to be able to communicate on its own the outlines of his emotional existence. He dubbed it "feeling-music." This is one of the album's great triumphs: Through the sonics alone you encounter not only Brian the tortured sound architect, but also Brian the gentle dreamer, Brian the fragile soul, and Brian the earnest romantic. You could say that Pet Sounds is a musical portrait of Brian Wilson's inner life.

This portrait is fleshed out and made more immediate by the lyrics, which Brian mostly co-wrote with Tony Asher, an ad copywriter whom he barely knew before they collaborated. Asher has said he served as his counterpart's interpreter and helped give narrative life to the emotions conveyed by the music. What resulted was a moving and resonant account of human frailty. There's callow longing for adulthood ("Wouldn't It Be Nice"); strongly-implied boyish indiscretion ("You Still Believe in Me"); isolation ("I Just Wasn't Made for These Times"); and heartbreak ("Caroline, No"). All of it shows Brian, a man of deep vulnerability, struggling to retain what he considers his innocence. At times, he pines for a youth that he's doubtlessly romanticizing, and elsewhere he looks ahead to the future with both trepidation and excitement. He wants the comfort and stability of love without the inevitable complications. He may sound naive, but the spellbinding sincerity of his appeals is what matters. That voice could never tell a lie, right?

Brian's voice and those of the other Beach Boys made the band, and their vocal arrangements on Pet Sounds supply much of its beauty. The harmonies are exquisite; the way different parts weave in and out of each other - rising and falling, fading in and then dissolving - displays a beautiful kind of mathematical perfection; and the contrast between Brian's elegant higher pitch and Mike Love's nasal delivery works as well as it ever did. And then there's Carl Wilson's stirring, heaven-sent performance on "God Only Knows" (once Macca's choice for his favorite song of all time; not sure if this remains true). It was supposed to be Brian's vocal, but he eventually concluded that Carl's voice was better suited to the material. The decision, so unselfish, was handsomely rewarded.

Lastly, I can't resist highlighting some of my favorite moments from the album. There are many. I love the booming drumbeat that sets "Wouldn't It Be Nice" into motion; I love the way Brian sings "I kiss your lips when your face looks sad" on "I'm Waiting for the Day" - it's with such determined affection; I love the baritone saxophone that chugs through the end of "Sloop John B"; (And what's really happening in that song, anyway? Such a prosaic story - and the thematic outlier of the bunch - and yet so full of tension and urgency.) I love the line "I may not always love you" for what it really is: the biggest bluff in all of pop music; I love the weird instrumental break on "Here Today"; and I love everything about "Caroline, No," a song of dreamy, slow-moving heartbreak that should be a mainstream pop classic but isn't. It's the Beach Boys' "She's Leaving Home."

One hopes that Brian Wilson knows just how much Pet Sounds means to so many people. It's an album we love, and it seems to love us right back. Achieving a perfection of sound, it wasn't just a giant leap forward for the Beach Boys; it was a giant leap forward for all of pop music. Its influence is vast. Who knows: Without it, Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band may never have happened, and then where would pop music be today?

*The quote in the title comes from Elton John.

"...the problem with the Great American Songbook albums"

This Slate article is worth your time: "Why do Great American Songbook albums by pop artists so often disappoint?"

Excerpt:
Kisses On The Bottom, like just about everything else Paul McCartney has ever done, is marked by a game, high-spirited optimism that's pretty hard to hate. A few of the songs on it—like his lilting and graceful "More I Cannot Wish You," from Frank Loesser's Guys and Dolls—are truly beautiful, offering ample proof that Macca's own remarkable body of work is as firmly rooted in classic, pre-rock pop as it is in Little Richard and everything that came afterward. But even he can't escape the curse that befalls so many of these respectful, well-intentioned projects. It's the curse of pleasantness, of innocuousness, of valedictory tribute. It threatens to turn the best songs ever written into easily forgettable ditties. Thankfully, these songs are also the most durable—they're "standards," after all—and will always be a good deal stronger than their weakest renditions. They can't take that away from us.

Word of the day: prelapsarian ("characteristic of or belonging to the time or state before the fall of humankind").

A true Beach Boy

On this day in 1944, Dennis Wilson - brother of Brian and Carl, cousin of Mike Love, drummer, and late-blooming talent - was born. Dennis, of course, was a member of the Beach Boys and, later, a solo artist. Overshadowed by his more naturally gifted siblings, Dennis left a legacy that in great measure is unrelated to his abilities as a singer-songwriter and musician: he was the wild, self-destructive Beach Boy; he was the lone member of the group who avidly surfed; and he was, at one time, a friend to Charles Manson. But, as songs like "Forever" demonstrate, he did eventually come into his own. Described by Brian as a "rock and roll prayer," "Forever" is one of pop's finest love songs - a ballad of aching beauty powered by Dennis' sad, weary vocal. What a moving line this is: "Let the love I have for you / Live in your heart and be forever."

Dennis drowned in 1983 at the age of 39. RIP.

"Forever":


(If the video is removed, go here.)

I was also hoping to post the Beach Boys' cover of "You've Got to Hide Your Love Away," which features Dennis on lead vocals. Unfortunately, it's not available on YouTube.

"Revolution" revamped

In honor of Steve Jobs, indie rock veterans the Flaming Lips crafted a cover of "Revolution" that was recorded using nothing but iPads. The accompanying video, featured at the O Music Awards, is here. You'll need to side-scroll for a while at the bottom of the page and then bypass a much-too cleavaged Yoko Ono to get there. When you do, you may find yourself nonplussed, even annoyed. The song's novelty (which is admittedly quite cool in the abstract) quickly wears thin, and what remains is a sonically grating, robotized misfire. I suppose it's close to what you'd expect of a tribute from the kooky, stunt-happy Lips. If anything is of interest, it's the band's decision to tap John's moment of vacillation from the original version of the song - "And when you talk about destruction / Don't you know that you can count me out/ In." Beyond that (which isn't much), the song offers little else.