"Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band" hit the music stores six months earlier, and it was still making headlines on this day in 1967 when "Magical Mystery Tour" was released.
But so were other songs the Beatles had written and recorded but had not yet released on an album — like "All You Need Is Love" and "Baby You're a Rich Man," which were released as the two sides of a single six weeks after the "Sgt. Pepper" album.
The Beatles were constantly experimenting with sounds and recording techniques. They rose to prominence with no real long–term expectations and therefore felt free to go wherever their interests took them. I saw an interview with Ringo Starr from around the time the Beatles made their first appearance on The Ed Sullivan Show, and he said he hoped the group would be successful enough that he could use his earnings to invest in a beauty shop in London. Neither he nor the other Beatles would have believed it if they had been told their recordings would still be influencing popular music half a century later.
Anyway, following the completion of "Sgt. Pepper," Paul McCartney had a brainstorm. He wanted to create an extemporaneous film about the Beatles and their music. "Ordinary" people (including the Beatles) would travel on a bus and have magical adventures.
The project yielded a 52–minute movie that was aired on the BBC the day after Christmas and was so savaged by the critics that it has been seldom seen since.
It also produced six new Beatles songs — not enough by themselves to make an entire album. Capitol Records rounded out the album by including five previously non–album singles.
As always, the music was good. In fact, for many observers, it was the music that salvaged the entire project. The film had no script and no real direction.
Still in the context of what had come before — and what was yet to come — "Magical Mystery Tour" was exactly what it seemed to be, a hodge–podge of songs consisting of a brief soundtrack and a group of songs that had been released as singles within the previous year.
As I say, though, the music was good. George Harrison was bursting with creativity that would reach full flower a few years later when he released his triple–album solo effort "All Things Must Pass." In 1967, though, he was still a member of the Beatles and getting a handful of spots on albums that were largely dominated by Lennon–McCartney compositions.
Nevertheless, Harrison contributed "Blue Jay Way" and shared credit with John Lennon, McCartney and Starr on the instrumental "Flying."
Yes, the music was good, but the album and film were disjointed. It wasn't surprising that both got mixed reviews.
It richly deserves its place in the Beatles discography. But it doesn't flow seamlessly in the Beatles' musical timeline.
This is a milestone anniversary in the annals of 20th century music.
For it was on this day in 1957 that John Lennon and Paul McCartney, perhaps the most successful songwriting team in history, met for the first time.
Three years before forming the Beatles, Lennon and his band, the Quarrymen, were performing for the second time. They were providing the music at a church festival. McCartney was there.
Lennon asked McCartney to join the band, and he did — even though his father and aunt didn't approve of Lennon. They considered him to be beneath them — although McCartney's father allowed the band to practice in his home.
It was through McCartney that Geoerge Harrison joined the band. McCartney recommended him to play lead guitar, but Lennon thought he was too young (14 at the time). Harrison won him over by playing "Raunchy" on the top deck of a bus in Liverpool.
Ringo Starr joined the band later.
It was 60 years ago today, though, that the nucleus of the band that would dominate popular music for a decade and beyond was born.
The buzz that preceded the release 40 years ago today of "Wings Over America," a three–record album of Paul McCartney and Wings performing live on their mid–'70s American tour, was unlike anything I had ever seen before.
It hadn't been all that long, really, since the Beatles broke up, and I guess the withdrawal from the excitement of Beatlemania was too great for many fans. The tour was the first time McCartney had performed in the United States since the Beatles toured North America in the '60s, and there was a great desire to hear what McCartney sounded like in concert.
My sense was that there was general disappointment in the album even though it reached #1 on the Billboard LP chart. That was pretty amazing for a three–record set. I guess you had to be an ex–Beatle to accomplish that feat.
Immediately after their breakup, the Beatles embarked on their individual projects. Initially, the most successful ex–Beatle had to be George Harrison with not one but two extraordinarily well–received triple albums, "Concert for Bangladesh" and "All Things Must Pass." McCartney soon surpassed him, though, with several successful albums — but his triple album did not come along until "Wings Over America" hit the stores 40 years ago today.
"Wings Over America" contained mostly songs from those albums. Today it serves as kind of a nice time capsule, reminding us of what McCartney was doing in those first few years away from the Beatles, but at the time many fans wanted to hear McCartney performing Beatles songs. There was still hope, as I recall, that the Beatles would reunite, and that hope persisted for four more years until the assassination of John Lennon. In the '70s rumors of Beatles reunions were as rampant as Elvis sightings.
McCartney did oblige his fans by including live performances of five Beatles songs — but he provided considerably more than that 14 years later in another live triple album, "Tripping the Live Fantastic."
"Maybe I'm Amazed" was the only single released from the entire album, but it was far from being McCartney's most recent studio recording. It first appeared on his 1970 album, "McCartney," an album that was regarded more at the time as McCartney's attempt to cash in on the week–old breakup of the Beatles.
That album opened some wounds among Beatles fans that fester to this day.
But "Maybe I'm Amazed" found a wider audience as a live recording than it ever did as a studio piece. For those who had been following the four Beatles since their breakup, that may have been the most amazing thing about "Wings Over America."
After all, there were more than two dozen tracks on "Wings Over America." About 80% were from albums McCartney had made in the six years since the Beatles' breakup — and many, but not all, had been hits. There was a live version, for example, of "Live and Let Die," McCartney's musical contribution to the James Bond film series. And there was a live version of "Band on the Run," which may have been McCartney's most successful solo record up to that time.
"Maybe I'm Amazed" would have been the choice of few to be the only single from the album. Yet it was — and it was a big hit.
In hindsight, I guess the only single from that three–record set had to be a song that had been out there for awhile, not a recent release. Of course, that opens the door for an argument that a Beatles song should have been the single. But I suppose that gets us into issues of ownership rights and things like that.
I don't know whose idea it was to make "Maybe I'm Amazed" the only single from the album. But whoever thought of it was spot on.
"Ram," which hit the music stores on this day in 1971, was not Paul McCartney's first post–Beatles album.
That distinction belonged to an album that was simply called "McCartney." It was released a year earlier, and — in my opinion, at least, but also in the opinions of many others — it was an inferior product even though it did give McCartney what was, technically, his first solo hit, "Maybe I'm Amazed."
(While "Maybe I'm Amazed" received ample praise and airplay in 1970, the studio recording from "McCartney" was never released as a single. It wasn't until 1977 that the live recording from "Wings Over America" became a Top 10 hit.)
"Ram" was the only album credited to both Paul and Linda McCartney; even though Linda was a member of her husband's post–Beatles band, Wings, and recorded several albums with him before her death, her only listed credits on those other efforts were her contributions to the band musically and/or lyrically.
She seemed largely content to play a supporting role to her husband. I guess that's a pretty easy choice to make if you're married to an ex–Beatle.
I have come to believe that the breakup of a band is very similar to the breakup of a marriage. The more idyllic such a partnership seems to be, the harder it is for others to accept its end, which may account in part for the lukewarm reaction to "McCartney."
At first, fans and critics weren't exactly wild about "Ram," either. Perhaps, like many children of divorce, those fans and critics resisted anything that made it more likely the change was permanent, desperately believing a reunion was possible.
To be fair, sometimes couples do reunite — Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor come to mind — but those truly are the exceptions, and the ones that succeed are even more exceptional. In the world of music, reunions seem to be even rarer occurrences, perhaps because they involve not just a couple but four or five people, possibly more. When they happen in music, they tend to be one–shot deals for special events, not long–term arrangements.
What is more likely is that an ex–band member, like an ex–spouse, will find a new love and move on. A tepid response from friends and relatives may be all that is necessary to crush a blossoming relationship.
But sometimes the new loves of divorced parents win over the children — perhaps not entirely but sufficiently. So it seems to have been with Linda McCartney and diehard Beatles fans, at least in the 1970s. The dream of a Beatles reunion persisted for 10 years but died when John Lennon died in 1980; after that, it always seemed to me, Paul McCartney was more widely accepted as a solo performer, although he and Linda achieved considerable success with Wings in the 1970s.
That success, it seemed to me, truly began with "Ram."
And I have always felt that "Uncle Albert" was the first of McCartney's post–Beatles hits, some with Wings (which disbanded in 1981), most under McCartney's name alone.
"Ram" spawned other singles, too, but they didn't have the commercial success that "Uncle Albert" had. Wings formed after "Ram" was released, but it, too, received poor reactions from fans and critics after its first two albums, "Wild Life" and "Red Rose Speedway."
(In hindsight, much of that reaction may have been the result of the perception of McCartney's role in the Beatles' breakup. In most fractured relationships, one of the partners is perceived to have been responsible for the breakup — or, at least, more responsible than the other. Fairly or unfairly, McCartney was long believed by many Beatles fans to have been the reason the band broke up.)
It wasn't until 1973's "Band on the Run" that McCartney and Wings started to enjoy regular commercial success.
And the course of popular music was changed forever.
Fifty years ago today, the Beatles stood on the brink of an historic shift in popular music. In a few months, they would enter uncharted creative waters. They would release "Rubber Soul," which included the almost obligatory love songs with which early Beatles albums had become inextricably linked but also boasted an increasing number of songs that showcased the evolving maturity of each Beatle and gave listeners a glimpse of what was to come. Rolling Stone ranked "Rubber Soul" fifth on its list of the 500 greatest albums of all time.
In 1966, the Beatles would follow "Rubber Soul" with "Revolver,"Rolling Stone's third–greatest album of all time.
"Help!" the British version of which was released 50 years ago today, didn't fare poorly with Rolling Stone, either; it was named the 331st album on the magazine's list of the 500 greatest albums of all time. It was really more of the same that the Beatles had been peddling for a couple of years — many routine love songs with some cover tunes and a few unique numbers thrown in.
(Actually, all of the Beatles' albums deserved to be ranked among the Top 500 of all time — and most of them were.)
In hindsight, change was clearly in the air — even if the Beatles themselves didn't realize it. At this point in the Beatlemania phenomenon, I think the Beatles were being carried along by their own momentum — and the formula that had made that momentum possible had been established for quite awhile. But if the Beatles were going to continue to be the dominant force in popular music, some changes would have to come. In 1965, the Beatles were beginning to face some real challenges to their musical creativity.
The British "Help!" was sort of a semi–soundtrack. Half of the 14 songs on the British album were in the movie "Help!" which was in theaters in late July 1965 whereas the American version really was a traditional soundtrack from the movie — which, according to the Beatles themselves, was made in a "haze of marijuana." The American album had fewer tracks than the British album and featured three tracks from the movie by non–Beatles. So the British version of "Help!" really was more of a Beatles album than the American version — which was also more of the same. American marketers routinely and shamelessly cut songs from the British counterparts and tried to squeeze more profits from the Beatles by slicing and dicing Beatles records to make extra albums.
(I've never seen the movie "Help!" It's the only Beatles movie I haven't seen, which is why I didn't write about it on the 50th anniversary of its premiere last week. But I've read some interesting interpretations by others, especially Martin King of The Independent: "The representation of masculinity embodied in 'Help!' is a key stepping stone to more obvious displays of gender fluidity that were to emerge in later decades," King wrote. He went on to discuss how, in "Help!" the Beatles heralded the coming of the metrosexual male decades before the word was coined. I never really thought of that. I just liked the music.
(Not much seems to have been written about the 50th anniversary of the release of the British edition of the "Help!" album. About the movie? Yes. But not about the albums, either the British or American versions.)
Both records had two very successful singles — "Ticket to Ride" and the title song "Help!" — but the British album also contained the tune that may be the most covered song not just in the annals of Beatles music but in the history of all recorded music, "Yesterday."
To be sure, there were other songs on "Help!" that had that unique Beatles brand and probably should never be sung by anyone else — even a Beatles tribute band. "You've Got to Hide Your Love Away" was such a song, as was "I've Just Seen a Face."
But there were also songs that merited little more than a minor mention. George Harrison's two songwriting efforts — "I Need You" and "You Like Me Too Much" — showed potential, but his compositions were not yet up to the level they would reach in later albums.
Personally, I have always been fond of "Act Naturally," the Beatles' cover of Buck Owens' tongue–in–cheek 1963 country chart–topper that made him a star. It was a song that went unrecorded for a few years after it was written because music publishers didn't think songs about the movie business would sell.
After Owens made it a hit, others began to cover it, and so did the Beatles. I have heard some of those covers, and I have concluded that, apart from Owens, only Ringo Starr could have sung it plausibly, and sing it he did.
Nearly a quarter of a century after Ringo recorded the cover for the Beatles, he and Owens got together to record a duet of the song.
It wound up spending a few weeks on the country charts, but Ringo didn't have the distinction of being the first Beatle to make the country charts. That honor went to Paul McCartney and Wings with "Sally G." in 1974.
Forty–five years ago today, the fourth and final movie featuring the Beatles — "Let It Be" — made its debut. Beatles fans were already becoming familiar with the music from the film — the soundtrack had been released in the United Kingdom a few days earlier and would be released in the United States a few days later.
At the Academy Awards the next year, the "Let It Be" was declsred the Best Original Score.
It was also released about five weeks after Paul McCartney had announced he was leaving the band. The signs of an approaching breakup had been there long before.
"Let It Be" was the only Beatles movie that had no real plot, which made it, in my opinion, the purest of the movies when it came to musical content. That is what the movie really was, a document of a prolonged recording session. It was also the filmed record of a popular band going through its death throes. It happens to most bands, I suppose. For any of several reasons, the band reaches its limit, and the members all understand it is time to look for something new. It didn't seem to surprise them, and it shouldn't have come as much of a surprise to anyone who had been paying attention, either. Nevertheless, many fans still seemed to be in shock at the thought of the Fab Four never performing together again.
I guess it all defied logic. The fans could read newspapers and magazines that detailed the band's breakup, yet, at the same time, there was another Beatles movie showing at the nation's theaters, and new Beatles music was playing on the radio. Nothing really seemed to have changed, the deniers told themselves, conveniently overlooking the evidence of an approaching breakup that had been accumulating for months. How could it be over?
Ah, but it was. The Beatles never performed as a band again. They each recorded solo albums and frequently collaborated with one or more of their former bandmates. I believe all four did play on one of Ringo Starr's albums — but on separate songs.
There were probably some hard feelings that lingered for awhile. Each Beatle seemed to have his personal agenda. In the movie, there appeared to be personality clashes between McCartney and each of his bandmates — but especially George Harrison, it seemed — at one time or another. John Lennon seemed to be obsessed with his new love interest, Yoko Ono. I'm sure Ringo had his issues, too. I just never could figure out what they were, other than he just wanted the band to keep making music — like they did when Beatlemania was new and the Beatles dominated the charts.
In the rapid–fire universe of popular music, a few weeks or months can seem like a lifetime. The half–decade that passed between the Beatles' first movie — "A Hard Day's Night" — and their last — "Let It Be" — must have seemed like a millennium, especially when you think of all the musical territory that was explored by the Beatles in the interim.
Their music had certainly traveled light years from "Can't Buy Me Love" to "The Long and Winding Road," on the silver screen. They had gained an astonishing amount of maturity since they made their debut in America.
I found it fascinating to watch the Beatles taking those final, often tortured steps on that long and winding road. I still do. I seem to come away from each viewing with a different — and no less valid — sense of what I have seen and what significance it may have had in the eventual outcome.
"Beatles For Sale," which was released 50 years ago today, marked a noteworthy shift in the evolution of Beatles' music.
Bookended by the albums that were released with their first two movies — "A Hard Day's Night" and "Help!" — "Beatles For Sale" demonstrated the Beatles' increasing desire to showcase their own compositions and make them more autobiographical.
They still had some cover tunes on the album — by Chuck Berry, Carl Perkins and Buddy Holly — most of which had been regulars on their play lists in Germany, but more than half of the songs were original tunes. Actually, that proportion of originals to covers was the same as their first two albums before "A Hard Day's Night," but there was more of an edge to the original songs this time.
Gone were the puff pieces like "I Wanna Hold Your Hand" and "She Loves You." They were replaced with songs of loss and angst.
American listeners didn't get the chance to purchase "Beatles For Sale" for more than 20 years. In the practice of the day, American promoters sold part of the album combined with leftovers from other albums in an attempt to squeeze as much profit from Beatlemania as possible. After all, who knew how long Beatlemania would last?
The closest thing to "Beatles For Sale" that was available in the U.S. was "Beatles '65," which did contain what is probably my favorite song from either version, "Baby's in Black."
"Beatles '65" was a big hit in the United States even though it wasn't the same album that was released in Great Britain — and it had what was, initially, a controversial cover that the promoters had to change. Makes you wonder if, in the end, it was worth it to sell different versions of Beatles albums in the U.S. than were sold in the U.K.
In hindsight, I guess it really did make the American promoters re–think their approach to Beatles marketing. I don't believe any of the albums by other artists that those promoters marketed were sliced and diced that way for American consumption.
On this day in 1968, the Beatles released the only double album they would release while they were still together as a band.
Numerous multi–record collections were released after the group broke up, but the album that was released 45 years ago today — informally known as the White Album for its plain white cover — was the only exception to the single–record releases that characterized the Beatles' work.
Double albums were rare in the 1960s so that isn't really surprising. But it was the Beatles' first studio release in 18 months, and expectations were very high, being the Beatles' first album after the groundbreaking "Sgt. Pepper" album (well, technically, "Magical Mystery Tour" came out in November 1967, but it was not so much a Beatles album as a soundtrack for a British TV movie).
I suppose Apple wanted to make a big splash, and a double album was seen as a way to do that. Double albums were events in those days.
That seemed to promote misinterpretation of the significance of many of the songs. It is a bit disappointing for a Beatles fan like myself to realize that what the White Album largely is known for today, at least in the history books, is being the inspiration for Helter Skelter, the race war that the twisted Charles Manson and his easily manipulated followers envisioned.
The White Album was more than that. Rolling Stone named it the 10th greatest album of all time.
I'm sure any Beatles fan will tell you the music is what the White Album is about, even 45 years after its release. I can put that CD on today and still find songs that sound new and fresh and energetic.
And, while most of the songs were credited to the Lennon–McCartney team, there were a few songs by George Harrison and even one by Ringo Starr.
"Helter Skelter" was a song written by Paul McCartney and has been recognized as an early influence on the heavy metal musical genre. But the Manson family interpreted it as a description of an apocalyptic war — from which Manson would emerge to lead the survivors.
Manson, however, grew tired of waiting for "Helter Skelter" — as he had taken to calling this war — to happen on its own and decided he had to help it along. And thus the deadly sequence of events was put in motion, leading to a weekend of gruesome murders that were committed by Manson's followers in the summer of 1969.
That, at least, is what history remembers about the White Album. But there was so much more. Some of my favorite Beatles songs — like "Yer Blues" ...
That was written by John Lennon — but, like all the compositions by Lennon and McCartney during their Beatles days, it was credited to the Lennon–McCartney songwriting team. It is often noted, however, that the Lennon–McCartney designation is deceptive because very few of those songs were equal parts Lennon and McCartney. One or the other usually contributed most if not all of the work — and that may never have been as true as it was on the White Album.
There were 30 songs on the White Album — including one ("Revolution 9") that wasn't a song at all, just an eight–minute–plus collection of unrelated sounds — and 25 were credited to Lennon–McCartney, but most of them really were solo efforts.
And Harrison was emerging as a songwriter in his own right, contributing in new ways all the time.
I like all four of Harrison's compositions that appeared on the White Album, but probably my favorite is "While My Guitar Gently Weeps," which was featured in Harrison's "Concert for Bangladesh" a few years later.
On the White Album, Eric Clapton of the recently disbanded Cream made an uncredited appearance, playing lead guitar on "While My Guitar Gently Weeps."
In an online poll last year, readers of Guitar World named it Harrison's best as a Beatle. While you will find Harrison devotees who prefer one of his songs or another over that one, most Harrison fans probably could be persuaded to go along with that choice.
One song — "Don't Pass Me By" — was credited to Richard Sharkey, aka Ringo Starr (who also sang it on the album). It was his first solo composition.
During his Beatles days, Starr sang lead vocals on songs that were written by others (i.e., "Yellow Submarine," a McCartney composition, and "Act Naturally," which was written by Buck Owens) — and he sang his own compositions on his solo albums.
But "Don't Pass Me By" was Starr's first solo songwriting effort on an album.
Songwriting never seemed to be what motivated Starr. Lennon and McCartney, of course, were prodigious songwriters, and Harrison evolved from a somewhat hesitant songwriter to one who bubbled so with creativity that, after the Beatles broke up, he had to release a triple album to provide an outlet for the backlog of material that never found its way onto a Beatles album.
But Starr always seemed content merely to play the drums.
Some critics thought the White Album lacked a theme, that it was a collection of unrelated songs. That probably was true — although you have to understand that, in 1968, theme albums were kind of rare. As innovative as the Beatles were, they weren't ahead of the curve on everything. Some of their albums did explore themes, but most did not. That kind of thing was more prominent after the Beatles broke up.
The White Album influenced me in ways that other albums did not. It was recorded at a turbulent point in the story of the Beatles — all four were starting to move in their own directions — as well as a turbulent time in the histories of America and the world. No wonder there was a sense of melancholy isolation in many of the songs.
It was just that simple. They were each moving on. It became official less than two years later when McCartney left the band and the breakup was formalized.
The White Album prepared the Beatles' fans for the next phase. I suppose it fulfills a similar function today, preparing the listener for the next phase of his/her life.
Less charitable people might see it as an addiction. Perhaps they would say I am a "Beatles–a–holic." But I don't feel that way. To confess to being addicted to something is to admit to being powerless over a bad thing, something that is not healthy or desirable but over which you have no control.
I'll admit that I have no control over my affection for Beatles music. But it is not an addiction. True, there are days when I feel that I absolutely must hear a Beatles song — or a song that was released by John Lennon, Paul McCartney or George Harrison in their solo careers.
But I don't think that is a bad thing. It is something that has been a part of me all my life — and it has enriched my life.
Beatles songs have been enriching many lives for half a century.
The very first Beatles single, "Love Me Do," was released on this day in 1962.
Fifty years. Wow. As Tony Sclafani writes for NBC News, the Beatles "probably couldn't have imagined being age 50, much less anyone marking the single hitting the half–century mark."
Nevertheless, we are witnessing the first of many such milestones today. In the years ahead, all the other Beatles songs that you've been humming as you went about your daily business and singing in the shower all these years will be turning 50 as well.
But "Love Me Do" was — and is — the first. If you want to mark the date when the British invasion really began, it was on this day 50 years ago.
With a ditty that McCartney wrote in the late 1950s when he was about 16.
Actually, I guess, the invasion was more than a year away on Oct. 5, 1962. I suppose the invasion part occurred when the Beatles came to America and appeared on the Ed Sullivan Show — and were greeted by wildly screaming Beatlemaniacs who had been watching the explosion of Beatlemania across the ocean.
Paul McCartney is 70 years old today, which seems incredible to me.
I don't remember much about the early days of global Beatlemania, but I do recall that McCartney was generally regarded as the attractive Beatle.
The other Beatles had their devotees, of course, but the impression I got was that most of the young women of that time had serious crushes on Paul.
I never really understood that. Paul wasn't the youngest of the Beatles (that was George Harrison) or the wittiest of the Beatles (as far as I was concerned, that was John Lennon). Maybe there was a perception that he looked more boyish than the others — but, as far as I was concerned, they all looked boyish when they burst onto the scene.
There was a good reason for that, too. They were all in their 20s.
McCartney always had a knack for writing catchy tunes — just count all the hit tunes he wrote — and there is something to be said for longevity. Lennon died at the age of 40 (he was murdered), and Harrison died of cancer when he was 58. McCartney has avoided either fate — thus far — but I'll be darned if he doesn't still look a bit boyish.
He doesn't look as boyish as he did when, in his early 50s, he appeared on Saturday Night Live and was interviewed by Chris Farley.
That's been nearly 20 years ago, and it is the first thing that comes to my mind now when I think of McCartney.
In the skit, Farley played a rather clumsy TV host who was interviewing McCartney and asking him questions like "Remember when you were with the Beatles? That was awesome!"
Farley kept chastising himself after every question, and McCartney constantly reassured him that "You're doing great."
(Perhaps my favorite part of that interview was when Farley asked McCartney about the rumor that the phrase "Paul is dead" could be heard if a Beatles record was played backward. "That was a hoax, right?" Farley asked.
(And McCartney replied, "Yeah, I wasn't really dead.")
But what started out as a lame interview (for comic purposes, of course) gained some redemption at the end when Farley asked McCartney, "Remember when you were in the Beatles? And you did that album Abbey Road, and at the very end of the song, it goes, 'And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make?' Is that true?"
McCartney replied, "In my experience, it is. I find, the more you give, the more you get."
Farley turned to the camera and mouthed the word, "AWESOME!"
Today is a special anniversary in the annals of popular music.
It was on this day in 1957 that the two halves of perhaps the most famous songwriting team in history — John Lennon and Paul McCartney — came together for the first time.
It was in a place called Woolton, a suburb of Liverpool. Lennon's band, the Quarrymen, was performing at some sort of social function at St. Peter's Church. McCartney happened to be there — although why I do not know.
Anyway, why he was there doesn't matter, I guess. The point is that they were introduced to each other 54 years ago today. By October, McCartney had joined the Quarrymen. A few months later, so did George Harrison.
The rest is history, I suppose. Lennon and McCartney formed a partnership and agreed to share the credit for all songs that were written by them, either collaboratively or separately. Between 1962 and 1969, Lennon and McCartney composed approximately 180 songs, most of which were recorded by the Beatles.
As just about any Beatles fan will tell you, most of those songs were not collaborative efforts. Most of them were written, entirely or mostly, by either Lennon or McCartney.
It was more of a team effort in the early days. Many of their early songs were compositions in which one had written an incomplete song that the other completed by adding a "middle eight," which tended to have a different melody from the rest of the song and acted as something of a bridge.There was a competitive element in their work in those days, and it produced some truly influential songs. "Yesterday," for example, has been cited as the most recorded/covered song ever by the Guinness Book of World Records.
Later on, nearly all of their songs were individual efforts.
Lennon spoke about the dynamic tension between his style and McCartney's — which was so critical in the creation of the Beatles phenomenon. In an interview near the end of his life, he told Playboy that McCartney "provided a lightness, an optimism, while I would always go for the sadness, the discords, the bluesy notes. There was a period when I thought I didn't write melodies, that Paul wrote those and I just wrote straight, shouting rock 'n' roll."
Typically, it wasn't hard to tell who was responsible for which song. The primary composer usually sang his songs on the albums so, if you could differentiate between the two voices, you could figure it out.
And, as Lennon observed, many of his songs were of the "straight, shouting rock 'n' roll" variety while McCartney leaned more to love songs and ballads.
But they struck a balance that worked — and worked well.
When I was a child, Don McLean's song "American Pie" forever dubbed Feb. 3, 1959, the "day the music died" because that was the day that Buddy Holly and Ritchie Valens and the Big Bopper died in a plane crash in Iowa.
That was a major event for the young people of that time, but it had no real meaning for me. I hadn't even been born yet.
On Aug. 16, 1977, when Elvis Presley died, that could have been considered the day the music died for people who came of age when Presley was at the top of the charts. But it didn't have the same meaning for me. I wasn't really brought up on his music.
For me, the day the music died was 30 years ago today — when John Lennon was gunned down in front of his apartment building in New York.
That was a traumatic event in my young life — and in the lives of millions the world over, which is really an amazing thing to realize, considering that the members of my generation, perhaps more than any who had come before, were brought up in a world in which violent acts aimed at prominent people — mostly politicians and leaders of political/social movements — were commonplace.
Before I graduated from high school, there had been three presidential assassination attempts (one of which was successful), two assassination attempts on presidential candidates (one of which was successful) and the murders of numerous civil rights figures.
And I heard of death threats against people in other walks of life — sports figures, mostly, like Hank Aaron and Arthur Ashe.
But the shooting of a musician, an entertainer, was truly astonishing.
It was, he said, an "unspeakable tragedy." And so it was.
Cosell didn't provide too many details. I didn't learn until later that Lennon had been killed by a deranged fan who had approached him for an autograph only hours before — and in approximately the same place where he would shoot the musician.
My friends and I went out into the chilly December night a short time after hearing the news. The all–news cable channel concept was still new and defining itself — and, in most places, only available to those who paid extra for it — and it wasn't possible in those days to simply switch on the TV and get breaking news reports — at least, not where we were, in Fayetteville, Ark.
I insisted to my friends that I didn't believe it was true. A mistake had been made, I told them. Why would anyone want to kill John Lennon? He was one of the Beatles! That would be like killing Elvis!
And then I remember one of my friends looking at me with what were perhaps the saddest eyes I have ever seen and saying, "He's dead, man. John Lennon is dead."
I remember wondering, how could he believe it — after all the times when people in charge had lied to us in the past? But, at that moment, it really began to sink in. It still seemed beyond belief, but that would change as the news delivery systems of that time slowly caught up, and word eventually spread that, yes, it was true.
My friends and I went to our homes, and I switched on my TV, hoping to find something, anything about this, but I found nothing that night. I remember watching the first few minutes of The Tonight Show, hoping Johnny Carson would say something about it (I didn't yet know that The Tonight Show was not broadcast live, that it was taped several hours earlier), but Carson said nothing, of course. So I went to bed, hoping that the next morning I would awaken to find it had been a cruel hoax.
But, of course, it was not.
I recall there was some resentment at the time among Lennon's most devoted admirers for what was considered a rather unfeeling response to the news by his famous ex–bandmate, Paul McCartney.
"It's a drag, isn't it?" the cameras showed him saying casually in London the next day. Some people thought that was unfeeling. McCartney later explained that he had been in shock. It was an explanation I found easy to accept.
Lennon's widow, Yoko Ono, issued a statement to Lennon's grieving fans that day.
"There is no funeral for John," it read. "John loved and prayed for the human race. Please do the same for him."
And, in fact, there was no formal funeral service for John Lennon. Instead, Ono asked his fans to observe 10 minutes of silence the Sunday after his death.
But there were candlelight vigils held the world over. That was Lennon's funeral, I suppose.
I remember a radio station in the town where I was in college played Lennon music and Beatles music all week in Lennon's honor and repeatedly reminded listeners of Ono's request. Then, at the appointed time on that Sunday, that radio station went silent for the full 10 minutes. I listened when it went silent and I left my radio on to hear when it came back on the air.
It did so with a playing of "Give Peace a Chance."
That was only the beginning of many tributes to Lennon's life after his death. A section of Central Park across the street from the building in New York where Lennon lived and was murdered was renamed "Strawberry Fields" and has become a popular gathering place for Lennon's fans on the anniversaries of his birthday and his murder — and on other significant days, like the day ex–Beatle George Harrison died in November 2001 and on the occasion of the September 11 terrorist attacks earlier that year.
As I wrote on the occasion of his 70th birthday in October, I think Lennon would have continued to be a societal influence in these last 30 years, writing and recording songs about all of the major events — and, perhaps, at times, altering the course of events through the sheer magnetism of his personality.
Today is a reminder of how much we lost on that day 30 years ago.
My mother was an only child, and my father had a sister who was six years older. Based on what I know of my aunt, she was something of a prodigy. I heard, for example, that she graduated from high school when she was about 16 and that she finished college before she was 20. Some time after that, she married a man who worked for General Electric, and she apparently devoted herself to her home and her three children.
My cousins were all older than I was, and, until I was about 10 or 11, they lived in the Netherlands. So I never saw them when I was a child.
They returned to the United States when I was about 12, but GE didn't send my uncle to Texas, where my grandmother still lived, or somewhere else in the South. Instead, GE sent them to Schenectady, N.Y. — more than 1,400 miles from Dallas and more than 1,100 miles from my hometown of Conway, Ark.
Even though we were finally on the same continent, it seemed to me that I might grow up without knowing that side of my family. But my parents were planning a trip to Vermont one summer to visit some old friends, and it was decided that we would stop in Schenectady and visit my aunt and uncle and the cousins while we were in that part of the country.
And so we did.
The youngest of my cousins was about five or six years older than I was so all three were around college age then. There were two boys and one girl. I think the girl was the youngest, and she may have still been in high school. I don't recall seeing the oldest — he may have been out of college by that time, might even have been married and living somewhere else.
But the middle son was there. As I recall, he had been away from home most of that summer and had just returned home. I even remember seeing his bags in the hallway. Maybe he had been taking summer classes at the college where he was enrolled. Anyway, our visit came during a period between the end of summer school and the beginning of the fall semester, and I remember my uncle teasing my cousin about missing the smell of cigarette smoke around the house while he was gone.
I have a memory of all of us sitting in my aunt's living room and talking, and I recall my aunt and uncle telling us that my cousin Cathy had just had her wisdom teeth extracted. That gave my father the opportunity to recall when my aunt had her wisdom teeth extracted. "She made sure we all knew about it," my father said.
Somewhere around that time, Cathy got up, excused herself and went to the back of the house, where her room was, and put a record on her turntable. And I could hear the familiar songs of Jefferson Airplane — "Somebody to Love," "Volunteers" and "White Rabbit," among others.
Those are the songs that I always associate with Jefferson Airplane. The group disbanded around the time of our visit to Schenectady and was soon replaced by Jefferson Starship, which later dropped the "Jefferson" part and just went by the name of Starship.
I always felt that was a corporate sellout, considering that Jefferson Airplane always seemed like the embodiment of the left–wing counterculture. Starship just seemed too commercial.
But when Jefferson Airplane crashed, Jefferson Starship rose from the ashes in its place. At first, there seemed to be little difference between the two. Grace Slick was still singing for the band, and it was churning out hits like "Miracles" and "Jane."
Initially, I suppose, I didn't realize just how commercial Starship really was. The parting of the ways, for me, came 25 years ago tomorrow, when Starship released "We Built This City."
I felt at the time that it was a perfectly horrid song — and that opinion was confirmed nearly 20 years later, when Blender magazine named it the worst song ever.
Now, that probably requires a disclaimer. Six years ago, Blender put together a list of what it called the 50 worst songs of all time, which was inspired by a VH1 special called "The 50 Most Awesomely Bad Songs ... Ever."
I'm sure you can think of at least one song — probably many more — that could fairly be said to be worse than "We Built This City." And that brings us to the catch.
In order to qualify for the list, the song had to be a hit at some point. It didn't have to reach #1 on the Billboard chart, but it had to be popular enough that it sold fairly well and got decent airplay.
Astonishingly, though, "We Built This City" actually did reach #1 on Billboard's chart about 2½ months after it was released as a single. So it qualified for inclusion in the list. People liked it. They really liked it. But I didn't.
The issues I have with "We Built This City" are too numerous to discuss here. But I've always been irritated by the lyrics. I guess I owe that to my training as a journalist and my experience as a copy editor. I can — and have — put up with a lot. But "We Built This City" was the straw that broke this camel's back.
Early in the song, for example, it refers to Italian radio pioneer Guglielmo Marconi playing the mamba. Mamba is the name of the species and subspecies of a deadly snake. My guess is that the writer of the song, Bernie Taupin, meant mambo, which is a dance. Poetic license?
I guess I expected better from Taupin. He wrote so many of the really fine songs that made Elton John a star. But words have meaning, and, when a lyricist uses a word simply because it rhymes with something else and not because it has a relevant meaning, that's just wrong.
Well, I suppose even the best song writers can come up with a clinker now and then.
Paul McCartney, for example, was half of the greatest song writing team in popular music history when he and John Lennon were composing songs for the Beatles. Then, after the Beatles broke up, McCartney went on to a very successful career as first the leader of the group Wings and then as a solo artist, writing several very good songs.
But he took his lumps from Blender — and justifiably so — for his collaboration with Stevie Wonder on the dreadful "Ebony and Ivory" and his participation in the Beatles' "Ob–La–Di, Ob–La–Da."
I don't have an argument with either of those selections, but I would include a third song, for which McCartney was responsible — "Let 'Em In," which was released 34 years ago.
It would be hard to beat the jejune quality of the chorus — "Someone's knocking on the door/Somebody's ringing the bell/Someone's knocking on the door/Somebody's ringing the bell/Do me a favor/Open the door/And let 'em in."
But I suppose it redeems itself, to a degree, by having lyrics that have some meaning — even if the meaning is an inside joke.
The song recites a list of names, which, as I learned later in my life, actually refer to real people. Well, most of them do:
"Sister Suzy" was McCartney's first wife, Linda.
"Brother John" is Linda's brother, John.
"Martin Luther" has never been made clear, but it probably isn't a reference to Martin Luther King, as might seem obvious. More likely, I have been told, it is a reference to Lennon, who was called "Martin Luther Lennon" by McCartney and the Beatles.
"Phil and Don" are the Everly Brothers.
"Brother Michael" is McCartney's brother.
"Auntie Jin" was McCartney's aunt.
And there is more. Later in the song, "Brother Michael" is replaced by "Uncle Ernie," which is a reference to the Who's Keith Moon, who played the character of Uncle Ernie in the film version of the Who's "Tommy."
"Auntie Jin" was replaced by "Uncle Ian" — whoever he is/was.
If Blender wants to come up with a revised list, I don't object to keeping "We Built This City" in the top spot. And most of the songs on the original list certainly deserved to be there.
But I wouldn't mind if "Let 'Em In" was in the Top 50.
Tomorrow night, McCartney will be playing in Tulsa, Okla., which is about 100 miles or so from where I went to college. I know someone who will be there. We went to college together. He's back in the area now, and he will be attending the show with his 10–year–old son. He e–mailed me about it recently and told me it will be his son's first rock 'n' roll show.
That's the kind of thing that makes me envious of my friends who found someone to share their lives with. The ones who have sons also get to experience these father–son moments — a first ballgame or a first rock concert, whatever shape the coming–of–age ritual may take.
(For instance, a guy I knew in school has established a personal tradition. When each of his sons has reached a certain age, the two of them go on father–son camping/fishing trips in the Canadian wilderness. It sounds like fun, but it isn't quite the same thing as spending an evening with Sir Paul.)
I've never met my friend's son. But I've been to ballgames with his father, and I've been to concerts with his father. In fact, I remember that, within a relatively short period, he and I went to concerts by REM and Eric Clapton and we went to a major college football game. I had a blast each time. I know his son will, too.
Imagine ... seeing Paul McCartney in your first concert. I think Three Dog Night performed at my first concert.
For that matter, the only Beatle I have ever seen in person was Ringo with his All–Starr Band. Now, Ringo is a Hall of Famer because he was with the Beatles, but he isn't a legend on his own like Paul McCartney.
I hope that young man appreciates the fact that he will be seeing a legend. I was about his age when I saw Three Dog Night. It was an enjoyable show, but it took me several years — and many concerts headlined by B–list entertainers — to work my way up to genuine legends.
So I have to wonder — what's next when your first concert experience is Paul McCartney? Where do you go from there?
Then, on Wednesday night, McCartney will be here in Dallas. I won't be going to that show, either, but my pastor will.
I don't know if he has ever seen McCartney before. But if this is his first time, I hope he enjoys the show. I'm sure he will. From what I have heard, McCartney puts on quite a performance.
I suspect that my pastor will get more from the show than an evening's entertainment — although I have no doubt McCartney will deliver. My pastor's a musician himself, and he plays with a band that participates in many charitable fundraisers locally. I've never been to a concert with him, but I know, as a writer, that I am influenced, both consciously and subconsciously, by things I read.
My guess is that it works the same way with musicians. On a conscious level, my pastor will enjoy listening to Sir Paul. He may even feel moved to sing along with him. And, on a subconscious level, he may be accumulating tips that will add to his performances in the future.
My old college friend is also a musician. There was even a time when he and I collaborated on songs (trust me, though, the Lennon–McCartney team is in no danger of being replaced in the public's affections). And I'm sure he'll be doing the same thing.
All kinds of things will be going on at the shows in Tulsa and Dallas this week. Wish I could be there.
I got my bachelor's degree in journalism from the University of Arkansas, and I got my master's degree in journalism from the University of North Texas. Most of my adult life has been dedicated to writing and editing in one form or another. Most recently I have taught writing (news and developmental) as an adjunct journalism professor at Richland College, where I advise the student newspaper staff. Go, Thunderducks!
