If you don’t know the story of The Beatles’ new song, that’s okay, Paul McCartney will tell you. He is in control of the narrative, just as he likes to be, and he will repeat it in multiple interviews in the ensuing months (and years). (Love you Paul.)
Okay, okay, okay.
In 1994, Yoko Ono gave the three surviving Beatles a tape containing four uncompleted John Lennon songs. They completed two, “Free as a Bird” and “Real Love,” yet left “Now and Then” unfinished, as they became frustrated by the quality and clarity of John’s vocal (and apparently ran out of time, according to Paul in the new documentary about the making of the song).
Then Peter Jackson and his team crafted a technology during the production of Get Back that would allow John’s vocal to be separated from his piano playing. Suddenly, his vocal was crystal clear. (Love you Peter Jackson.)
So in true Beatles fashion, Paul went to work. He re-recorded his bass part.
And called Ringo in to play drums.
And asked Giles Martin to score the orchestration, just as his father would have.
And, while George’s guitar parts from the 1995 recording sessions remain a part of the track, Paul recorded a slide guitar solo as a tribute to George.
Yes, the final Beatles’ track is here: “Now and Then.”
In short, I love it. While I haven’t read too many reactions to the song, I think it is important to establish and accept the following facts before critiquing or commenting on the song:
John Lennon recorded the demo for “Now and Then” in 1977.
John Lennon was murdered in 1980.
Paul McCartney, George Harrison, and Ringo Starr began working on this track in February 1995 as part of the Anthology sessions.
George Harrison died of cancer in 2001.
While “Now and Then” features contributions from all four Beatles (thus making it a Beatles track), they were not all in the same room at the same time, actively collaborating and recording together. This does not make this track an outlier in The Beatles’ discography, however (even outside of “Free as a Bird” and “Real Love”).
Furthermore, the song is not a product of AI, despite the click-bait article titles. Peter Jackson and his team developed a software system to uncouple John’s voice from the piano. There is nothing artificial about the production. Humans labored over this production with care and love. It has been in the making for decades.
If you can accept these facts, then I think you can approach the song with a clearer perspective.
Now some opinions.
I first became a Beatles fan in the mid-1990s, with the release of The Beatles Anthology and the first new Beatles songs in decades, “Free as a Bird” and “Real Love.” I saved the VHS tape of the ABC broadcast of The Beatles Anthology, including the countdown to the video premiere of “Real Love”, for a long time. I’m a little sad that the practical part of me discarded it after upgrading to the DVD set (I used to check out the full-length video set from the local library for years, also being a frugal child). I love those songs and videos. They are pure nostalgia for me, taking me back to that magical time when everything about The Beatles was fresh and new to me – and when I could tell kids at school who taunted “Aren’t they all, like, DEAD?” “Actually, NO! Only John Lennon is dead because he was MURDERED!!!!” (Outside his home. In front of his wife. He was shot in the back. By a COWARD. And here we are, 40+ years later with mass shootings still happening on a regular basis in this country. Just bubbling over with anger here. But I digress.) I’m still a little taken aback to learn that there are people (Beatles fans even) who dislike these songs or don’t consider them “real” Beatles songs.
I never thought there would be another “new” Beatles song. Learning that there would be, however, I did not expect that new Beatles song to be as impactful or groundbreaking as say “In My Life” or “A Day in the Life” or even “Got to Get You Into My Life.”
Yet, I cannot stop listening to this song or watching the video, and I do find it deeply affecting and meaningful.
The video, directed by Peter Jackson, is the perfect companion to the song’s lyrics and meaning (as I interpret them, anyway). We see the three surviving Beatles working on the song in the 1990s and as John begins to sing, we see his profile gazing at a beautiful sunset. An image of The Beatles in their bathing costumes from a famous 1963 Dezo Hoffman photo session supersedes the sunset; Paul, in 2023, harmonizes with John: “it’s all because of…you.” The marriage of the now and the then.
I imagine John, writing and recording this song in 1977, reflecting on his life and in particular his time and friendships with The Beatles. This is the man who declared in 1980: “The Beatles is over, but John, Paul, George, and Ringo…God knows what relationship they’ll have in the future. I still love those guys!” These four men lived an unique set of experiences only they could relate to. “The comfort of being four together,” George remarked at one point in the Anthology series, comparing their collective experience to that of the singular Elvis.
“Now and then,” Paul and Ringo sing along with John. “I miss you.” Cut to George and John laughing at Shea Stadium. And there are tears welling in my eyes and goosebumps prickling on my arms every single time. (And did I mention how many times I have watched this video? A lot.)
Peter Jackson did employ some AI to blend the past and present in the video: jocular footage of John and George from the 1967 promo for “Hello Goodbye” is placed alongside a focused Ringo and Paul recording the track in 2023. The Beatles were a joyful group of individuals, after all. (And how much joy have they collectively brought the world!) It is a bittersweet, yet buoyant, Beatles reunion in song and on film. “Oh now and then/I want you to be there for me/Always to return to me.” If John wasn’t singing about his bandmates in 1977, he is now. And it is so beautiful and touching.
Call it cosmic, call it divine, but the fact that these four men were born in the same time, in the same city, and somehow found their way to each other and achieved what they did is not coincidental. And the bond and love they had was not intended to end at the grave. I do believe that. You can extend that lyrical metaphor to your own loved ones. The eventual reunion of now and then.
The final minute or so of the video also tugs on all the heart strings as the “now” transcends further and further into the “then”: the final group photo session, Shea Stadium, images of Hamburg, the Beatles in their youth. And finally, a scene from A Hard Day’s Night, with the group taking their famous “Beatles bow” as their images fade away. The perfect closure for this perfect band. (Yes, this band is perfect. This reunion does not taint or lessen their legacy in any way.)
Did I say I love it? I do. I really do.
Oh, and the final words John supposedly said to Paul?
Long time, no write. No excuse except well, that’s life.
(If you can listen to Sinatra’s rendition of “That’s Life” without seeing Joquain Phoenix as Arthur Fleck dancing around in a pair of whitey-tighties — well, aren’t you special?)
I have recently been blessed to have SiriusXM in my life again, which means I get to listen to The Beatles Channel 24/8. (It’s not like I do not have access to this music in multiple formats, but hey, we need to see all the silver linings in having a car payment again. Wah wahhhh.)
There is (or used to be? Not sure what people are being told to think these days on this topic) this notion that prior to Rubber Soul, The Beatles were just a happy-go-lucky pop band. Talented, sure, but nothing extraordinary or culture-shifting. In fact, when I was a senior in high school interviewing for some scholarship, my love for the Beatles somehow came up and one of the interviewers commented how he didn’t like “that bubblegum stuff” that came before Rubber Soul. Slightly dumbstruck and more than insulted, I remarked that wasn’t really an accurate statement. Needless to say, I didn’t get the scholarship, ha.
ANYWAY.
There is so much joy and artistry in the early Beatles. Let’s talk about some tracks that, in my view, illustrate the depth of their sophisticated talent that pre-dates Rubber Soul (which is amazing, of course, and my default favorite Beatles album despite containing one of my least favorite Beatles songs ever, so I should probably re-evaluate my choices).
There’s a place Where I can go When I feel low When I feel blue And it’s my mind And there’s no time When I’m alone
Yup, these lyrics appear on the very first Beatles album. See, we don’t need no stinkin’ Bob Dylan to up our lyric game in this band. (I’m only half-joking. Dylan’s influence is important.) The song celebrates introspection and the wandering mind, common themes in many Lennon songs (e.g. “Strawberry Fields Forever,” “Across the Universe,” “I’m Only Sleeping”, and the list goes on), backed by that inimitable Beatles sound. (Well, many attempt to imitate but no one really comes close. Unless you’re a Beatle.)
William Mann, renowned critic for Times of London, famously wrote of this track in the 22 December 1963 edition: “Harmonic interest is typical of their [The Beatles] quicker songs, too, and one gets the impression that they think simultaneously of harmony and melody, so firmly are the major tonic sevenths and ninths built into their tunes, … so natural is the Aeolian cadence at the end of ‘Not a Second Time’ (the chord progression which ends Mahler’s Song of the Earth).”
Errr, what? I’m not a smart woman because I don’t know what an Aeolian cadence is. (“To this day, I don’t have any idea what Aeolian cadences are. They sound like exotic birds,” declared John Lennon in 1980.)
A few years later, John characterized Mann as an imbecile (just rolling on the floor laughing over here, love this guy, warts and all) yet credited the article with broadening the band’s audience. “It works and we were flattered. I wrote ‘ Not a Second Time’ and, really, it was just chords like any other chords. To me, I was doing a Smokey Robinson-type tune or something at that time,” he commented.
Regardless, it is a distinct, polished song in the Beatles’ catalogue.
“This Boy”(B-Side to “I Want to Hold Your Hand”, 1963)
Out of the handful of songs to feature three-part harmony in the Beatles’ repertoire (“Yes It Is” and “Because” are the other two that come to mind), “This Boy” is probably my favorite. Lennon, who loved words so much, dismissed the lyrics of this song, though, explaining that it was “just my attempt at writing one of those three-part harmony Smokey Robinson songs. Nothing in the lyrics; just a sound and harmony.” But what a sound and harmony!
And if you’re ever feeling a little down, you should watch George Harrison (in 1976) watching the band perform the song (in 1963). If I were a gambling person, I would bet it would cheer you up 1000%. (And if it doesn’t, I would also bet you are actually possessed by a soulless demon. Stinks to be you.)
Really, the entire A Hard Day’s Night album is a masterpiece. Unique as the only Beatles album that includes only Lennon-McCartney compositions, this song in particular is set apart by having two bridges, each delivered with ardent and aching feeling by John Lennon. How did this guy detest the sound of his own voice so much? Gets me every time.
I’ve always thought of this song in tandem with “I’ll Be Back.” They share a tale of ill-fated love and another beautiful, plaintive vocal by John Lennon.
Lennon recalled that Dick James (publisher of the Beatles’ songs who ultimately caused them to lose possession of their creations — but let’s not get into that right now) told him after hearing this song, “You’re getting better now — that’s a complete story.”
“Apparently before that, he thought my songs wandered off,” Lennon wryly observed.
While this song does appear on the U.S. version of Rubber Soul (which is the version that sparked Brian Wilson to create Pet Sounds), I’m ultimately loyal to the British releases. It is a seamless addition to the folk-inspired strokes of Rubber Soul but not out of place on Help!. A toe-tapping love song for the ages.
And then BOOM, we’re at the cross roads: Rubber Soul is coming. (Or are we? Don’t we see the natural growth and progression now?) I could go on; there are so many gems in the Beatles discography. It’s just so much easier to point out songs that fall short because there are so few of them.
Best there ever was, best there ever will be. Forever and ever. Don’t fight me on this! It will not be pretty and we won’t be able to be friends.
Until next time (which hopefully isn’t another two years, ha),
The Countess
P.S. Who else loved how George mentioned “Every Little Thing” in Get Back? Wondering whether they would perform any oldies in the grand finale of the project, he names the track as a “good one.” Indeed. Once again, you are CORRECT!
Thanksgiving 2021 brought an opportunity to reflect and express gratitude for many blessings, culminating in the long-awaited premiere of Peter Jackson’s three-part series The Beatles: Get Back. The original Let It Be film has yet to be given an official release, and it (and the accompanying period in the Beatles’ career it documents) has been canonized as a miserable portrait of the Beatles breaking up. “We showed how the breakup of a band works,” Paul McCartney stated in The Beatles Anthology, the seminal documentary of the band’s career in their own words.
Consequently, Let It Be has never been a favorite album of mine. The four somber, separate images of the Beatles on the album’s cover, pasted against a solid black background, are representative of the fractured band. It has felt more like a funeral procession than the metaphorical cover of Abbey Road. And I just never really counted any of its songs among my favorites.
Yet, I went into Get Back with no preconceived notions or expectations. I was excited, highly suspected I would love it, yet I did not truly expect to love the film so much nor learn so much. (At one point during my viewing, my husband asked me, “So are you actually learning anything new from this or did you already know everything?” To which I immediately replied, “Yes, I am. It is endlessly fascinating!”)
The original film (which I never saw until I downloaded a bootleg after being frustrated with all the Let It Be questions hampering my speed of victory in Beatles Trivial Pursuit) is dark, jumbles some performances and conversations together, and calls it a day. With 150 hours of audio recording and 60 hours of film footage, it’s not too surprising. Peter Jackson’s Get Back, on the other hand, provides context for the film: the band, who quit touring in 1966, have increasingly relied on studio technology for their recording career, resulting in them spending less time playing “live” together as a cohesive unit on record. The film documents their quest to create a new album with the four members playing together, ending in their first live performance in nearly three years. Furthermore, Ringo is due to begin filming The Magic Christian at the end of January, so they have a tight deadline—essentially two weeks to rehearse, record, and perform their new record of 14 songs (the typical Beatles offering; they believed in giving their fans their money’s worth–now they know we will give them our money freely with any reissue). Get Back, unlike Let It Be, has a clear, linear narrative that is purposeful and compelling.
Part One: The Beatles at Twickenham (Days 1-7)
Twickenham Studios is a dreary setting, and the events that transpire there reflect that. Denis O’Dell, manager of Apple films, has suggested the location to the Beatles. They can rehearse, record, and eventually perform for an audience there. Once the record and film are completed, Ringo can just pop down the hall to start filming The Magic Christian. It seems to be a matter of convenience rather than a result of the Beatles’ choice or spontaneity (which, George later points out, is when the best things happen for the band). The soundstage is large, dark, and even lacks proper recording equipment. Dickens himself could not have crafted more efficient foreshadowing.
In this stage of the film, we see what I believe the Beatles allowed to color their memories of the project in later years (hence why the film has been locked away for the last 50 years). There are a few lighthearted, joyful moments, but more often, you see boredom and misery on the faces of the Beatles (especially Ringo, George, and John, who is counting down the days until the weekend). Paul, who confers with the filmmakers frequently, appears to be the most invested in the project, especially the idea of a live performance. “Just give it up,” George declares in exasperation at one point, as they discuss (yet again) ridiculous sites for this performance. (There is even mention of taking fans with them on a boat. “And then on top of that we’re stuck with a bloody big boatload of people for two weeks,” George, the voice of reason, concludes.) “I’m here because I want to do a show, but I don’t feel an awful lot of support,” Paul comments.
These discussions are tedious, and the rehearsals equally so at times. You hear different members playing fragments of songs that would become fixtures of their respective solo careers: “All Things Must Pass,” “Another Day,” “Jealous Guy,” “Gimme Some Truth,” “Back Seat of My Car.” It’s hard to separate these songs from their solo careers for me, and I see, in these moments, that these are four musicians who may have not outgrown each other but certainly need the space and freedom to pursue their own projects. They are strong individuals, yet there is still a camaraderie among them and a drive to stay together as a band.
Yoko Ono, who has carried a fair share of the blame for the band’s breakup, is a non-invasive presence (until she is given access to a microphone – Mal, get me an anvil and a hammer STAT!!!!!). She knits, she paints, she reads, she writes, but she rarely speaks or interjects her thoughts and opinions. Perhaps her presence on The White Album created awkward, tense moments between the group, but they seem to have adapted to her attendance by this point. (Truthfully, I find the presence of George’s Hare Krishna friends much more odd and illogical.)
Instead, the tension between John, Paul, George, and Ringo is rooted in the fact that they have grown as individuals and the increasingly impossible pressure they have put themselves under with this latest group project.
The famous argument between George and Paul (“I’ll play whatever you want me to play, or I won’t play at all…whatever it is that will please you, I’ll do it.”) is set up appropriately in Peter Jackson’s film. While working on “Two of Us,” George and Paul have different approaches about how to finish a song. Paul wants things “uncomplicated” until they have a rough version of the song completed; George feels he can figure out his part simultaneously. Paul, not wanting to antagonize George any further, stands up and walks away briefly and then proposes they work on another song. No, George replies, let’s finish this one.
The conversation is tense (John and Ringo don’t utter a single word throughout), yet respectful, and there is no real resolution, as they will repeat the discussion in a few days with a different song.
George comes in one morning and plays “I Me Mine,” which he wrote the previous night, to the group. Paul approaches John shortly thereafter. “Haven’t you written anything else? We’re about to be in a crisis.” His statement is a truthful expression of the situation — they do not have a single song that they have learned well enough to record and perform — but it could also be a subtle comment on the value of George’s contributions, which strains their relationship as a group as well.
On Day 7 (Friday 10 January 1969), the group rehearses “Get Back.” The song is in its beginning stages, without clear lyrics or its signature shuffling rhythm.
“You need Eric Clapton playing on top of it,” George says.
“No. You don’t. You need, like, a…” Paul searches for the words.
“George Harrison,” John says.
“You need George Harrison, but just doing simple things until it’s your go, you know…Because otherwise you get the guitar conflicting with what you’re singing, and all that.”
Later, Paul suggests they break for lunch.
“I think I’ll be…I’m leaving the band,” George announces.
“When?” John asks.
“Now,” George replies nonchalantly, distractedly. “See ya ‘round the clubs.”
“Got up went to Twickenham rehearsed until lunch time – left the Beatles – went home” reads George’s diary for the day.
George’s departure is not dramatic or full of malice. It’s a matter of fact and a natural consequence of the shifting dynamics of the band. “George is versus John and Paul when it comes to what they’re going to do and what they’re going to play and you try doing that for a few months, you’re going to end up pissed off,” Neil Aspinall explains succinctly and perfectly.
After lunch, John, Paul, and Ringo carry on half-heartedly — Paul is practicing acrobatics, John sings “Maxwell’s Silver Hammer” mockingly, and Yoko wails away on a microphone that is unfortunately powered on. The group is laughing and joking, whether because they don’t take George’s exit seriously or they’re masking the sadness they must feel over their fissuring bond. There is a dramatic zoom in on George’s turquoise velvet cushions, unoccupied by his bony rear.
“If he doesn’t come back by Tuesday, we’ll get Clapton,” John says.
The final shot shows John, Paul, and Ringo in a group huddle, “Isn’t It a Pity” providing the soundtrack. They meet with George the following day, and the meeting does not end well, the subtitles inform us.
End of Act One.
Dang, I know what happens, but I am on the edge of my seat, clamoring for the next episode.
Part Two: Home Again at Apple (Days 8-16)
Part Two contains some of the most revelatory moments of the series. It opens with Ringo, Paul, Linda, and other associates discussing the previous meeting with George and how to move forward. John is absent. Linda observes that John was quiet during the band’s earlier meeting and how Yoko was speaking for John, whom, she believes, didn’t seem to believe any of it.
“If it came to push between the Beatles and Yoko, it’s Yoko,” Paul admits. Talking about their songwriting partnership, he states writing is awkward with Yoko present, as the subject matter would become “white walls or something.”
The action is at a standstill without John (or George). No one can reach John by phone.
“And then there were two,” Paul says quietly, tears welling up in his eyes. It’s sad. He loves this band and these men, and he feels it slipping away (rightly so). Mal Evans (bless this man, what a treasure he was) enters shortly thereafter and says John is on the phone, does Paul want to speak to him? Paul eagerly jumps up.
While Paul is gone, Linda is vocal about the direction the band should take. Speaking as a fan, she thinks they need to play live to an audience again. Locations are thrown around again. “Brighton Beach would be all right,” Linda says.
“No — stay out of this, Yoko,” Paul, reappearing, says with a smile, which Linda returns. These two are the cutest.
John shows up later, and he and Paul have a revealing conversation (which they do not know is being recorded via a hidden microphone in a flowerpot) in the studio’s cafeteria.
“It’s a festering wound we’ve allowed…and yesterday we allowed it to go deeper, and we didn’t give him any bandages,” John says passionately. John also admits he has been in the same position as George — submissive to Paul’s ideas and arrangements.
“You’ve always been boss, and I’ve always been secondary boss,” Paul argues.
“Not always,” John says.
“Always!” Paul insists.
It’s fascinating how these two men view their position in the Beatles at this time. Just fascinating.
The conversation concludes with Paul assuming that George is coming back and John agreeing to go along with “the policy” because it has been what has kept them together. When they return to rehearsing, John is detached and irritable. He speaks openly of using drugs the night before (he was in the midst of his heroin addiction at the time). The fact that these scenes were allowed in the film by both Disney and the Beatles is astonishing, and I am grateful for the freedom Peter Jackson was allowed to tell this story authentically.
Paul is increasingly frustrated and saddened with the band’s lack of progress. “We can’t carry on like this indefinitely,” he declares. “We need a schedule. Achieve something every day.” This is the kind of work ethic that has defined and driven his career.
Ringo, John, and Paul meet with George again, and the outcome is positive. Their meeting is productive, and they collectively agree to change the direction of the Get Back project, abandoning the idea of a live performance and Twickenham Studios in favor of Apple Studios.
Once at Apple, the atmosphere is much more amiable and comfortable. (“It’s like home here,” John says at one point.) They are no longer dwarfed by the rehearsal space, and you see them enjoying each other’s company–even before Billy Preston arrives. (In The Beatles Anthology, George remembers everyone being on their best behavior once Billy Preston arrived because “you don’t actually want people to know you’re bitchy” — oh George, I love you.) And once Billy Preston does become part of the project, his playing elevates their songs, so much so that there is even a brief discussion of adding him as a permanent member. Paul dismisses the idea by saying, “It’s bad enough with four.”
There is noticeably less discussion of the live performance. Michael Lindsay-Hogg, the original director of Let It Be, comments, “I don’t know what story I’m telling anymore. I’ve got smokers, nail biters, and nose pickers.”
“We are rather uncouth,” Paul quips. “We’re not elite.”
Not to disrespect Michael Lindsay-Hogg too much, but he completely misses the point. This is the story. You don’t need the “payoff” at the end of a live performance in an outlandish location. The story is this band trying to make their new album, navigating their changing dynamics and interests. Maybe that was difficult to see while in the thick of it; hindsight certainly helps. Or maybe this project just needed Peter Jackson all along.
By the end of Part Two, the rooftop of Apple Studios is suggested as the venue for the live performance to end the film, and the band plans to perform in four days’ time.
Part 3: The Rooftop (Days 17-22)
With the timeline ever tightening, the band comes in to work on the weekend. Ringo plays “Octopus’s Garden” for George, who offers ideas and support.
John and Yoko arrive. “What am I playing, Richie?” John asks.
“You’ll be on drums.”
“I’m not getting on that kit without a ciggy!”
(This film contains tobacco depiction, you know.)
Linda’s young daughter Heather comes to the studio. It’s endearing to see how each of the Beatles interact with her, particularly John who always said he never knew how to “be” with children. He has a playful conversation with her about cats. Heather later imitates Yoko on the microphone, and it’s hilarious.
In Part One, George had stated, “Since Mr. Epstein passed away, it’s never been the same.”
“We’ve been very negative since Mr. Epstein passed away,” Paul agrees.
The absence of this fatherly authority figure who kept the Beatles safe and disciplined creates a black hole for a figure like Allen Klein to enter and swallow up these vulnerable beings. John recalls meeting Allen Klein for the first time, raving about how he knew everything about the Beatles. He’s enthralled, and he shares his enthusiasm with George.
At this point, my happy-go-lucky 4-month-old son started fussing. He knows what’s up! The disagreement over management (and the decisions Allen Klein ultimately does make) tear these four men apart. Paul simply never trusts him; the other three are fooled.
On a lighter note, one of my favorite moments (because I’m actually 12) is when Ringo turns to George Martin and announces, “I’ve farted. I thought I’d just let you know. I was gonna sit here silent and look at you. Then I thought no, I’ll tell you about it.”
Paul quickly creates some distance between himself and Ringo.
Ha. Ha. Ha. I love you, Ringo.
Although the songs are progressing, there is a discussion between John and Paul about the lack of an aim for the project except for an album, always an album!!! They don’t have 14 songs ready, and they need to rehearse more.
“We’re not doing a payoff,” complains Paul.
“I agree but we’ve only got seven, let’s do seven!” answers John.
INSTANT karma, man.
George later shares with John his desire to do a solo album because he has enough songs for his quota on Beatles albums for the next ten years. He wants to release them all at once and see what all of his songs sound like together. He expresses his wish to do his own thing but preserve the Beatles as well. “That’s great,” Yoko enthuses.
Dear God, can we have an alternate universe where this actually happened and I can visit there on weekends????
On the day of the Rooftop concert, there are ten cameras in place to document the event – five on the roof, one on the building across the street, three at street level, and one “hidden” camera in the reception area of the Apple building. The Beatles are in the basement having a meeting about whether to actually go through with the concert. “Let’s do it,” John declares. Who’s the leader of this group again?
Once on the roof, the band launches into “Get Back.” (Side note — one of the criticisms I have read of this film is how many times this song is heard, which whatever, but I mean, does Paul ever once sing the line “get back” while staring at Yoko, as John once alleged? Paranoid much, ha.) Peter Jackson utilizes the split screen to show the different camera views of the Rooftop concert.
Down on the street, many passersby instantly recognize the music as The Beatles and are pleased, while others are immortalized as total goobers.
“It’s a bloody stupid place to have a concert.”
“Woke me up from my sleep, and I don’t like it!”
“Disrupting all the business!”
These people are of different genders, races, ages, backgrounds: the perfect reflection of The Beatles’ audience. The Beatles playing on the rooftop, ultimately, was the perfect location for their audience to hear them. They’re not playing to an elite audience lucky enough to win a golden ticket; the music is for everybody.
The police constables arrive at Apple, visibly irritated and annoyed. “We’ve had 30 complaints, turn it down, or I’m going to start arresting people,” one threatens.
The Apple staff is coy. “I don’t know what they’re doing on the roof.”
Ha. Ha. Ha.
“You can go up to the roof, but don’t actually go ON the roof because it’s overweight.”
Ha. Ha. HA!
In the end, The Beatles are triumphant; the peace is disrupted, but no arrests are made–only history.
“I’d like to say thank you on behalf of the group, and I hope we passed the audition.”
Back inside, they discuss and listen back to the performance. There is mention of it being a dry run for something else, which ultimately never happens, of course. They are pleased with the playback and plan to return the following day to finish the final recordings (which play over the end credits).
For a total running time of approximately 8 hours, one episode of Get Back is considerably longer than the original Let It Be film and rivals the entirety of The Beatles Anthology, which tells the Beatles’ whole story. In just a few hours more, the Beatles recorded their first album. It seems the length is the chief criticism of the film, with some even suggesting there should be a condensed version for a wider audience, the casual fan.
To which I say: tough.
I really don’t care about the wider audience or the casual fan. I have waited for this for as long as I have been a Beatles fan at seven years old. Is it selfish to say that this film is for me and fans like me (but hey, you can be one of us, too, I don’t mind)? It is a sad reflection of our self-indulgent, self-centered culture, with its short attention span and constant quest for instant gratification (it’s tiresome and BORING to watch them rehearse “Get Back” yet again, wah wah), if this complete, rich portrait of this historic group cannot be appreciated in its full length. Don’t people binge an entire season of a show in one sitting? What’s the difference?
I also have seen a few comments lamenting on “what could have been.” The conversation between John and George about pursuing outside interests and projects, while at the same time maintaining the Beatles’ partnership, was allegedly never shared with Paul or Ringo. I recently listened to an interview with Mitch Albom, where he spoke about the death of his adopted daughter. He spent a lot of time feeling angry, wondering why she was taken from him and his wife until he turned the conversation to what was given to them. What a wonderful outlook to have. The Beatles have given so much–and continue to do so. They are the sound of my beating heart.
Thank you, Peter Jackson (and all those involved), for telling this story in such a genuine and beautiful way. It has made what I once considered the impossible to happen: I just want to listen to Let It Be (one of my least favorite Beatles albums) on repeat, and my love for this band has grown even more.
It’s a love that lasts forever. It’s a love that has no past.
You would think that with all the streaming world has to offer, you would rarely find yourself thinking, “There is literally nothing worthwhile to watch.” While Paul McCartney shares some of the same stories and tidbits he has shared in the two billion other interviews he has done (really, he just can’t resist sharing the creation of “Yesterday” one more time and can you blame him?), the new Hulu series McCartney 3,2,1 does not fall under that category, offering enough meaningful content to keep even the most devout of Beatles fans interested (well, unless you’re one of those whiny types who is just never content with anything, ever, in which case try some therapy or see if buying a villa in Florida makes you happy — spoiler! it probably won’t).
The format of McCartney 3, 2,1 is straightforward: each episode features a dissection of a Beatles song (or two…or three) at a mixing board with producer Rick Rubin. Stories and memories ensue, with a few common threads coming through — here are some of my favorites:
The pure love and joy the music brings to Paul. He’s a fan just like the rest of us.
Listening to a playback of “Back in the U.S.S.R.”, he is dancing, smiling, and shouting, “Whoo!” He loves it. During one episode, he discusses the process of becoming a Beatles fan again. After the pain of the breakup (“I thought I would be in this band forever,” he reflects), it took several years for him to be able to listen — and play live — Beatles songs again. Yet, once he did, he remembered and appreciated what a good little band they were, which becomes more and more evident as McCartney and Rubin take apart select Beatles tracks.
One such track is “And Your Bird Can Sing,” which John Lennon bluntly wrote off as “another horror” and “another one of my throwaways.” Yet, at the mixing board, showcasing the different parts that make up the whole, the artistry and musicianship of the band becomes evident and, as Rubin points out, a listener can hear the energy and excitement the band generated playing together in the studio — an energy and excitement that is delightfully infectious, even if you’re Paul McCartney listening to your band some fifty-odd years later.
Creating music was (and still is) a simple, natural process for the band.
During many of these mixing board moments, Rubin will ask Paul if the different components required hours of laborious rehearsals before recording. The answer is simple: no. As the main songwriters, John and Paul would present the basic song to the rest of the group (and George Martin) and together they would develop the finished product, each contributing. Listening to “And I Love Her,” Paul remembers how they felt the beginning of the song just needed something. George played the opening notes, and the song was complete. “I couldn’t imagine this song without that…It was good, you know,” Paul muses. Similarly, Ringo’s militaristic drumming of “Get Back” took the track in a completely different direction.
Paul also explains how he learned to play the piano — a simple process that begins with finding middle C and creating chords. The band lacked formal training, yet it obviously didn’t matter. Their innate ability to create came, in part, from their unique bond with one another.
Paul has great affection for John, Ringo, and George…
While some may consider Paul’s re-telling of his memories rose-colored and self-serving (how’s that down payment for that villa coming?), I find him to be incredibly endearing and generous.
The first tune featured in the series is “All My Loving.” Paul is quick to point out the driving rhythm guitar — something John was equally proud of. (“‘All My Loving’ is Paul, I regret to say…Because it’s a damn good piece of work…But I play a pretty mean guitar in back.”) The discussion then moves to the differences in their personalities: John was more defensive and cynical, while Paul was optimistic and diplomatic. You see it famously in two Beatles tracks: “Getting Better” (Paul: It’s getting better all the time; John: It couldn’t get much worse) and “We Can Work It Out” (Paul: We can work it out; John: Life is very short, and there’s no time for fussing and fighting, my friend). Paul attributes their success as a songwriting partnership, in part, to these differences and reflects on what made them so different, namely their upbringing. Paul came from a close-knit, loving family, while John was essentially abandoned by both of his parents. While he was raised by a loving aunt and uncle in a comfortable suburban setting (certainly the most prosperous of the four Beatles), he also knew his mother lived close by with his two half-sisters and their father, which had to be difficult for a young adolescent to understand and remain indifferent to.
Ringo was, of course, the last Beatle to join the band, yet his effect on the band is indelible. The band felt complete once Ringo joined; Paul remembers how different it felt from the very first time Ringo played with them. He lifted them up. Cut to Ringo banging away to “I Saw Her Standing There” at the Washington Coliseum during the Beatles’ first visit to the United States, and John is rocking, head bopping, completely enthralled by and feeding off of Ringo’s energy. “He just brought the whole band together,” Paul concludes.
George lived closest to Paul, and they met by chance on the bus ride on the way to school. There was an empty bus seat; George sat down, and they discovered their mutual interest in music. Rubin asks Paul how many other kids on that bus cared about music? “I would guess one…if you were lucky,” Paul answers. Chance – magic – divine intervention – whatever you want to call it – it is incredibly rare to sit on a school bus next to someone with whom you form this lasting connection. Not only do you become close friends but also have a shared extraordinary experience that forever molds you together, and at the end of the day, you have the greatest love and respect for each other. “From the little guy I met on the bus — a little guy with a quiff…He turned to be this very wise man,” Paul says.
The juxtaposition of the guitar and bass on “While My Guitar Gently Weeps” is fascinating to listen to in isolation. Reminiscing about the fact that Eric Clapton — not George — played the distinctive solo on the track, Paul observes: “It was very generous of George to give Eric this moment, when he could have had it for himself. But it’s just like, George was very like that. He was very open.”
…Even if he was the Bossy Beatle.
Some of Paul’s memories are, admittedly, carefully framed to downplay this fact. He recalls the use of the piccolo trumpet on “Penny Lane”; the solo includes an impossible high note that the player, David Mason, told Paul was out of the instrument’s range. Paul’s response? Well, you can do it! And he did. What Paul omits from this memory, however, is the fact that he asked Mason to record the solo a second time; George Martin had to convince Paul to be satisfied as the musician had just accomplished an inconceivable feat.
Listening to “Back in the U.S.S.R.,” Rubin seems surprised that Paul played drums on the track. Why? Well, Paul was probably showing Ringo what he wanted him to play on the track, and Ringo just said, “Well, you do it!” He neglects to mention the fact that Ringo actually quit the band at this point, precipitated by Paul’s overbearing direction.
Best butt in the Beatles? Is it not obvious?
At another point, Rubin plays “Another Girl,” an odd choice, as I always found the most memorable part of this song the sequence in the Bahamas from Help!, which clearly points out who had the best butt in the Beatles (ummmmmm, Paul).
“Who played the guitar on that?” Rubin asks.
“I’m not sure,” is Paul’s unconvincing answer. “I’m wanting to say it’s me ’cause it’s bad enough.”
“It’s a bold choice for you to play that,” Rubin compliments.
“Bold mistakes…That’s me. I specialize in bold mistakes.”
Yes, it is you, Paul. You played the guitar solo because you were unhappy with George’s rendition, and George just said, “Well, you do it!”
Yes, Paul was the bossy Beatle, but we still love you anyway.
Paul values John’s opinion— even now.
In some ways, John Lennon’s murder also made him a martyr, certainly at times to Paul (and perhaps George and Ringo, too). He was increasingly seen as the Beatles, the leader of the band (which, of course, he was, but it was also an equal partnership between the four–“How many Beatles does it take to change a light bulb?” George Harrison once quipped. “Four.”). Consequently, it has seemed, at times, that Paul is still competing with the memory and legacy of his dear friend. Yet, he has great love and regard for John, and you see how much Paul values John’s opinion and relishes his praise and respect even now.
Rubin reads Paul a quote about his bass playing: “Paul is one of the most innovative bass players that ever played bass and half of the stuff going on now is directly ripped off from his Beatle period. He has always been a bit coy about his bass playing, but he’s a great, great musician.”
“Did I write that?” Paul asks, laughing.
“That was John Lennon.”
“He never said that to me,” Paul replies — not begrudgingly, just matter-of-factly. And while I find it hard to believe he has never heard that quote or read it, he is genuinely pleased to hear it.
When asked to choose a favorite song he has written, Paul is tempted to say “Yesterday” because he finds its genesis so magical, yet he wants to say, more than ever, “Here, There, and Everywhere,” the beautiful love song found on Revolver that he wrote one day by John Lennon’s pool, waiting for him to be up and ready for a songwriting session. John himself always liked the song, telling Paul, “I like this one.” And that was enough — great praise indeed coming from John Lennon.
Magic.
When asked, “Do you believe in magic?”, Paul responds that he has to, considering the way “Yesterday” came to him.
Magic is a word used often in this series, and it is a word that could be used to describe many aspects of the Beatles’ story. And while in some ways a fitting adjective, the word magic seems too easy. This band worked hard. They had great supporters behind the scenes who encouraged and augmented their strengths and creativity. They believed in and supported each other as friends and bandmates. “The Beatles is over, but John, Paul, George, and Ringo…God knows what relationship they’ll have in the future. I don’t know. I still love those guys! Because they’ll always be those people who were that part of my life,” John Lennon once said.
“That didn’t have to happen,” Paul says at one point. “We could have had five years and gone back to the factory.”
The final scene of the series finds McCartney at the piano, holding the final chord of “A Day in the Life.”
“Yeah. You know, there’s the magic again,” he says with a smile.
Long time, no post, oops. I have no real excuse. Pet peeve #1: People who say they are “so busy”. False. Everyone is given the same amount of time. Individuals prioritize and make time for what is important for them. End of story.
Moving on.
Early in my marriage (going on a whopping four years now!), my husband and I would spend inordinate amounts of time trying to decide what to watch on a weekend night (you know, those nights when we have the energy to stay up past 9:30) until we finally landed on a routine: each of us is responsible for choosing one evening of cinema without complaints or protests from the other. While this method does indeed save time, it also has the added benefit of allowing me to watch Marlon Brando films (because someone is just a teensy bit jealous of Marlon–hence why my framed photograph of Marlon Brando is currently in storage and not hanging over our bed).
I recently chose On the Waterfront, and I was astounded yet again by the artistry and beauty of this film.
The story is compelling and forever relevant. The score perfectly complements the action and emotion on screen. (Do you ever just wake up with the On the Waterfront score in your head? I do but not near often enough.) The black-and-white photography, becoming increasingly obsolete by the Technicolor world at the time of its release, lends a raw beauty to the harsh, stark world of the longshoremen of Hoboken, New Jersey. There is not a single miscast actor or even extra. (Frank Sinatra is Frank Sinatra, but can you imagine him as Terry Malloy? Really? I laugh.)
Director Elia Kazan and Marlon Brando on the set of On the Waterfront.
The greatest being, of course, Brando as the menacing yet gentle and vulnerable Terry Malloy, who slowly realizes throughout the course of the film how he has sacrificed himself and his own ambitions for an entity that does not value or respect him and ultimately decides to take action against that abuse. (Brando later expressed dislike for what he felt was the implied metaphor in the film’s story: Kazan naming names to the House Un-American Activities Committee in 1952 was justified. A man, no matter what he has done, can atone.)
The effect of Brando’s verbal and nonverbal choices as an actor in inhabiting Terry Malloy and bringing him to life is mesmerizing: the touch of his nose, “By the nose, huh?”; playfully handling Edie’s dropped glove; the emphasis of the delivery of the modified line, “I coulda been somebody–instead of a bum, which is what I am.”; the tenderness in which he pushes the gun away from his brother Charley, then how he uses the same gun to massage his wounded arm, and finally hurls it at a photograph of Johnny Friendly–taking a weapon intended for killing and transforming it into an object of sadness, comfort, and anger; the forlorn wave of his hand when he discovers his pigeons have been mercilessly killed after his testimony, unable to share his grief with anyone. Elia Kazan rightly declared, “If there is a better performance by a man in the history of film in America, I don’t know what it is.”
Bless your face.
Terry Malloy’s journey throughout the film is laden with melancholy. He has been discarded and dismissed by his brother Charley and the mob as a brainless bum whose boxing career was thrown away for a bet, a reality he only verbalizes when Charley pulls a gun on him and pleads with him to take a job that will prevent him from testifying against Friendly. And yet, he still does not decide to take action until he sees Charley’s lifeless body hanging in an alleyway and declares he’s “going to take it out of their skulls.” Father Barry (Karl Malden) convinces him to choose the alternative route by testifying against Friendly. Yet when he does, he loses the friendship and respect of those around him; Tommy, a “Golden Warrior,” who once idolized Terry reacts by killing Terry’s entire flock of pigeons. “A pigeon for a pigeon!” And yet, his testimony was not enough–he has to face the other longshoreman on the dock and physically stand up to Friendly before his metamorphosis from a trapped bum to a free, upstanding, brave man with a conscience–a leader others want to follow–is complete. “If Terry walks in, we walk in with him.” And finally, miraculously, courageously he does.
Marlon Brando and Eva Marie Saint on the set of On the Waterfront
Eva Marie Saint told TCM host Robert Osborne that Brando was “adorable and a little frightening,” referring to the fact that she felt he could “see right through her.” She also revealed how sad it was that the acting world lost him–for she felt that at some point along the way, he lost the joy of acting. That is likely true; he may be the actor I have watched the most subpar films for. But On the Waterfront is certainly not one of them. In a world of technology addiction, my eyes were glued to the screen for the entire film because there is no need for any distraction found on that little phone screen while watching a film like this one. Where are the actors who make you forget that you are in fact just watching a movie? Where are the people in the world (or even the stories of people in the world) who are bold enough to stand up for what is true and right? Is it really all lost to the black-and-white world found in this stunning film? I hope not, but sometimes I am not very hopeful.
I actually wrote this post in April and never published it. Oops. Happy birthday, John. You can check out Sean Lennon’s interviews with Elton John, Julian Lennon, annnnnnnd Paul McCartney on BBC Radio 2 if you are needing an extra dose of Lennon today!
I’ve spread my wings a little lately and graduated to Beatles solo careers, spending a lot of time listening to and contemplating John Lennon’s final studio album, Double Fantasy. Both the album and Lennon’s murder turn 40 this year, which is just as much time as Lennon spent on the earth–a harrowing and humbling fact.
The genesis of Double Fantasy is well-known: with the birth of his son Sean in 1975, Lennon retreated from the music world to devote his time and energy to his newborn son. Years later, following a turbulent and transformative sailing trip to Bermuda, Lennon felt creatively re-energized, having written a handful of new songs. The album eventually became a joint effort with wife Yoko Ono, with one of Lennon’s songs being “answered” by an Ono composition, resulting in one critic to wish that Lennon had stayed in retirement and “kept his big happy trap shut until he has something to say that was even vaguely relevant to those of us not married to Yoko Ono.”
The critical response to the album was initially vitriolic before being awarded Album of the Year at the 1981 Grammy Awards, in wake of Lennon’s sudden and senseless murder. This shift in attitude is clearly linked to Lennon’s murder, as memory is in large part tied to emotion, and Lennon’s murder enveloped multiple generations in paralyzing, numbing grief. And for the critics, perhaps it was an apology or a saddening realization of what we once had and would have no more.
Considering Lennon’s solo career, the first two albums, Plastic Ono Band and Imagine, are masterful in their own distinct ways, yet he then faltered and never quite regained the same level of artistry on an entire album. (This is not to say that there are not outstanding compositions and performances on the subsequent albums.) I can imagine an avid John Lennon fan in 1980, eagerly awaiting the release of a new album after a five-year absence and being mildly disappointed. Lennon, the edgiest and most outspoken of the four Beatles who best encapsulated rock ‘n’ roll and all its connotations, had waited five years to release an album full of songs about…middle age (euuuugh!)–marriage, parenthood, relations between the sexes, which he’d plastered on the front cover by giving half of the album to his wife! At any other point in his life, Lennon would have gagged over such a prospect, but his life had never had the domestic stability and contentment he did in the final years of his life. That fact, coupled with his murder, is what lends the album so much emotional weight and poignancy.
The hopeful, tinkling tones that usher in “(Just Like) Starting Over” are a harsh contrast to the heavy, somber tolling bells at the start of Plastic Ono Band’s opening track, “Mother”, recorded ten years earlier. This telling contrast reveals just how much life Lennon had lived in a decade–shattered and hollow from the abandonment of his parents to a stable cocoon of apparent domestic bliss. “I just gotta tell you goodbye,” he sang in 1970. “It’ll be just like starting over,” he announced jubilantly in 1980. Not only is the song an expression of his love for his wife but it is also a homage to Lennon’s rock ‘n’ roll idols: Elvis, Gene Vincent, Eddie Cochran, and Buddy Holly. Unlike Yoko’s contributions, which embraced contemporary influences, Lennon primarily stayed true to the rock ‘n’ roll that he embraced as a teenager.
While “(Just Like) Starting Over” offers a rosy image of the Lennons’ marriage, “I’m Losing You” shows the relationship’s strain and frustration, making it an outlier on the album. It is also the only track that carries Lennon’s famous lyrical and vocal bite. “I know I hurt you then/But hell, that was way back when/Well, do you still have to carry that cross? (drop it!)/Don’t want to hear about it…” Yet all that anger and frustration melts away into the sublime “Woman.” For all her flaws and criticism–sometimes undeserved and often unnecessarily cruel–the beauty of this song and its sincere expression of love for Yoko is breathtaking–literally. It can be difficult to sing along because you can just feel how intense and heartfelt Lennon’s words are, with the knowledge that he was unexpectedly and unjustly ripped from his wife and children lodged firmly in your throat. “Hold me close to your heart/However distant, don’t keep us apart.” I mean, can you even imagine someone writing such a song for you? “Dear Yoko”, on the other hand, pales in comparison, as any song would.
My favorite on the album just might be “Watching the Wheels,” which is reportedly the track that convinced Lennon he could tell the world (or, rather, let Yoko tell the world) that he was making music again. The song is a response to those who criticized Lennon for leaving the music industry to “play house husband.” It’s playful, direct, and insidiously catchy.
“Beautiful Boy (Darling Boy)” is, of course, the gentle, loving lullaby for Sean, whose picture adorned the studio during record to remind Lennon of why he was there. “Good night, Sean, see you in the morning,” he whispers in the song’s final moments–and knowing that is all he wanted to go upstairs and say on the night of December 8 just rips your heart out.
I first heard all of these songs on the only John Lennon CD I had as a child: The John Lennon Collection (the cover photograph was taken by Annie Leibovitz on the morning of Lennon’s murder). (The only Lennon composition not included, “Cleanup Time,” has not stuck with me.) I don’t remember grouping the songs as Double Fantasy and not Double Fantasy, but I do remember enjoying the Double Fantasy songs just as much as (and–in some cases–more) than the other tracks–the same way I do now.
Listening to Double Fantasy in its entirety, I am inclined to skip over Yoko’s contributions–not to discount or disrespect her as an artist (although, really, she had no inkling of songwriting or knowledge of popular music until she married John Lennon and only then because of Lennon) but because I simply just don’t care for her music. At all. And while Lennon loved her and indulged her musical endeavors, I don’t subscribe to the view that I have to just because he did.
This all leaves the album where it ended–irrevocably tied to Lennon’s murder. He never intended for it to be his last statement on record, but he was undeniably proud of it at the time. Listening to the album is a reminder of how happy, fulfilled, and excited for the future Lennon was.
“When I was singing and writing this and working with her, I was visualizing all the people of my age group, from the sixties, being in their thirties and forties now, just like me. And having wives and children and having gone through everything together… I’m singin’ to them. I hope the young kids like it as well, but I’m really talking to the people who grew up with me. And saying, ‘Here I am now. How are you? How’s your relationship goin’? Did you get through it all? Wasn’t the seventies a drag, you know? Here we are, well let’s try to make the eighties good, you know?’ ‘Cause it’s still up to us to make what we can of it. It’s not out of our control. I still believe in love, peace; I still believe in positive thinking – when I can do it. I’m not always positive, but when I am I try to project it,” Lennon declared in his final interview, hours before his murder. “And we’re goin’ into an unknown future, but we’re still all here. We still… while there’s life there’s hope.”
Tracks had already been recorded for a follow-up album, and Lennon was planning to tour again. But it wasn’t to be. Lennon, who valued and demanded truth throughout his life, stumbled across the most brutal truth in the end: life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans.
As the world adjusts to its new normal, with some finding comfort in innumerable rolls of toilet paper (hey, that’s one for you, nineteen for me) or choosing to purchase cleaning supplies for the first time ever (apparently), I still find contentment, joy, and comfort in the same things, and near the top of that list has always been The Beatles.
I have spent the past several weeks immersing myself completely in their words and music (nothing else sounds good anymore), and I find myself still amazed by the craft and beauty found in so many of the songs. (I think I could use my fingers to count the truly abominable Beatles songs on a single hand.) These songs are undoubtedly part of my DNA at this point, but it is startling to hear a song as if it is the first time and be utterly blown away.
Let It Be has never been a favorite album. (Even with the release of Let It Be…Naked, I wasn’t sufficiently swayed, although the omission of the horrid “Maggie Mae” and “Dig It” is an obvious improvement, and it might contain the best version of “Across the Universe,” a beautiful Lennon composition that never got the production it deserved.) When an editor used Let It Be as an example of a classic record that would receive a full five-star rating, I was appalled and lost respect for that individual’s opinion (although in retrospect, I suppose the Beatles at their lowest ebb is better than 99% of any other musician’s output at any time). Despite the band’s disintegrating relationship, they still managed to produce some astounding songs, but I’ve never really wanted to listen it repeatedly — until now, with the impending end-of-the-world. (But I need the world to not end before Peter Jackson’s film is released. And the final two volumes of Mark Lewisohn’s biography. Is that too much to ask?)
The initial idea behind Let It Be was to show The Beatles rehearsing, recording, and ultimately performing an album of new material in front of a live audience. “Someone mentioned The Colosseum in Rome, and I think originally Paul might have even suggested a bloody boat in the middle of an ocean. As for me, I was rapidly warming up to the idea of an asylum!” John Lennon stated, reflecting on the number of “live” performance options that were discussed before The Beatles finally just went up to the rooftop of their Apple building.
The original intended title, Get Back, was an expression of the band’s desire to “get back” to the simplicity of their old recording days with no studio trickery or hours of overdubbing. The original cover even copied that of their first studio album, which had been recorded in just under twelve hours. The final result: approximately 96 hours of film and 30 hours of music that no one could agree on a suitable production sound (ever). The record was subsequently shelved, and the band returned to the studio to record the superior Abbey Road later that year.
John and George, however, approached Phil Spector to re-mix Let It Be for release. Although Spector did the opposite of the album’s original purpose, adding a female choir and orchestra to four of the album’s tracks, three of the Beatles liked the album’s sound, and it was slated for release, more than a year after its initial recording.
Paul McCartney was upset with the extensive overdubbing that was added to two of his hallmark compositions, and he attempted to have the “raw” (later re-christened “naked”) versions from the Glyn Johns mix placed on the album instead. His request was blocked by the ever-magnanimous Allen Klein (because he “waited too long to ask,” according to Lennon). This was the final straw for McCartney and what ultimately cemented the band’s demise–not to discredit Yoko (please, do not play nice and naive and claim she had no role, it’s delusional and irritating), diverging interests, and sheer boredom. Not only had McCartney lost control over his music–unforgivable in itself–but his voice and opinion were no longer respected. He released his debut solo album, titled simply McCartney, on April 17, 1970 (a controversial date, as it clashed with the releases of both Let It Be and Ringo’s Sentimental Journey) and announced to the world that The Beatles were no more.
Yet it is “The Long and Winding Road,” the song that broke up the Beatles, that I find myself listening to constantly during this time. (When Ringo recorded his drum part for “The Long and Winding Road” on April 1, 1970, he was the last Beatle to attend a recording session. This was, unfortunately, not an April Fool’s joke.) It has never been a favorite; I think I found it too saturated in syrup (maybe a by-product of Spector’s over-production), and it reminded me of Peter Frampton contemplating suicide. Now, though, I cannot decide which version I prefer.
The “naked” version is arresting in its simplicity and bare emotion, and it is clear why McCartney wanted to release this version. (Interesting to note, however, that McCartney has used Spector’s arrangement for many of his live performances. Again, it may have been less that Spector added orchestration and female voices to his song than the fact that he did it without McCartney’s consent and approval. The man likes to control things, understandably so.)
By comparison, Spector’s version does seem over-the-top. Yet, in an over-reaching way, it does augment the song’s emotional weight. And I absolutely love the slight break in Paul’s voice around the three-minute mark: “You left me standing here….” That just might give it a slight edge. Thankfully, in this age of copious takes of Beatles songs being available, one does not have to definitively decide which one is superior.
Paul wrote “The Long and Winding Road” with Ray Charles in mind; Charles cried the first time he heard it. “It’s a sad song because it’s all about the unattainable; the door you never quite reach. This is the road that you never get to the end of,” McCartney has said of the song’s melancholy. And that is perhaps what makes it the perfect soundtrack to these uncertain times–even if it is the song that broke up the world’s greatest rock and roll band.
Well, 2020 is off to a bangin’ start when your own sister does not even bother to share the noteworthy, albeit sobering news that John Karlen, beloved actor of Dark Shadows, died peacefully of congestive heart failure on January 22. May this be a reminder to the Countess to always heed those promptings to watch Dark Shadows.
John Karlen brought Willie Loomis–con man turned slave of a vampire to eventual devoted friend and protector of Barnabas Collins–to life, for which I am grateful.
While the Countess hasn’t binged Dark Shadows in awhile, I’m resorting to my memory and YouTube to share some of my favorite Willie moments in memoriam. (I am going to refrain from posting the fan video set to music from Titanic…yes, really.) Here we go:
1. The coffin isn’t empty…surprise!
Willie’s greed and lust for the legendary Collins jewels bit him in the butt–er, neck–when he went a-huntin’ in the Collins mausoleum. But of course. A new era begins.
2. “You’re a bad liar, Willie. You told them. You must have told them. You must have betrayed me. You shouldn’t have done that, Willie. That means I’m going to have to punish you. I must teach you your lesson, Willie. You’ll never betray me again!”
Willie is charged with feeding Adam and cruelly taunts him with a chicken leg. Adam retaliates, and Barnabas is forced to intervene with his superb parenting skills: he raises his wolf-head cane and orders Adam to “LET WILLIE GO!” Adam whimpers like an abused dog, and Willie runs off like one–literally. Poor Adam. Poor Willie. Life at the Old House is rough.
4. Ooooh….pretty!
Simpler, happier times when Adam and Willie got along and marveled at the beauty of Josette’s jewelry. They had so much more in common than they ever realized.
5. “Look at me. Look into my eyes!” “I don’t want to!”
Angelique, operating under the alias Cassandra, extracts information from Willie about her number one obsession (pssst, Barnabas) the only way she knows how: witchcraft. Female empowerment, baby. No exposed butt cheeks required. Heck, she doesn’t even need a roaring fire in this scene.
And, my all-time favorite….
Willie and Julia have quarantined Barnabas for his own good, but Barnabas really wants some water — and Willie falls for it. Absolute classic.
Of course, John Karlen portrayed other characters on Dark Shadows–renowned Barnabas Collins biographer Willie Loomis (Parallel Time), practical joker Carl Collins (Quentin Collin’s loony brother), decapitated head collector Desmond Collins (1840), and nosy lawyer Kendrick Young (1840/1841 Parallel Time)–but it was the voice of Willie that a blind woman at the race track recognized, an occurrence that amazed John Karlen. Fellow Dark Shadows cast members Kathryn Leigh Scott (Maggie, Willie’s one true love) and David Selby (Quentin, tsssss) referred to Karlen as a “force of nature” who of course will be sorely missed. We love ya, Willie.
“There’s a lot of things we deserve but never get. And there’s things we get but don’t deserve.” — Willie Loomis, S A G E RIP
“You want to stop that movement from the popcorn to the mouth,” Marlon Brando once said. For it is part of an actor’s job to draw the audience into their performance so completely that the audience loses that need for the mindless eating that accompanies movie-going. This does not happen when watching Greta Gerwig’s adaptation of Louisa May Alcott’s beloved tale of sisterhood, Little Women. While some critics have deemed it “near-perfect” and “the best film of the decade,” that is unequivocally false. Instead, it is an agonizing two-plus hour film with no energy or story.
Nearly every actor in Gerwig’s film fails to lend any heart, warmth, or believability to their role. You are constantly aware that you are watching actors try to make characters come alive — and thus failing. When you watch Gillian Armstrong’s truly perfect re-telling of Alcott’s novel, you completely forget that you are watching a movie: Winona Ryder is Jo March. Susan Sarandon is Marmee. Even Eric Stoltz is John Brooke. No actor in Gerwig’s film–except perhaps Meryl Streep (and we all know how much I love Meryl Streep–I don’t)–gives a true performance. Ronan is awkward and contradictory as Jo; Beth is nondescript; Amy is truly, truly horrible, acting as a spoiled brat as both a child and an adult by the same actress. (When she storms off after telling Laurie, “I’ve loved you my whole life!” I wanted to laugh because it was just so pathetic.) Amy is oft-disliked for a reason, but Kirsten Dunst and Samantha Mathis gave her a heart in Armstrong’s film. (Dunst’s Amy is truly apologetic after burning Jo’s sacred manuscript; in Gerwig’s film, it is as if Marmee is holding a knife to Amy’s throat, forcing her to express remorse.)
All the changes Gerwig has made to the story–focusing on the March sisters as adults, the non-linear storyline, and the subtle implication that Jo does not marry (I will get to that in a minute)–make no difference, as there is nothing for this film to stand on. Jo rushes home because her sister Beth is dying? That’s not sad at all because there has been no demonstration of any connection between these two “sisters.” Four sisters fall into an arguing, laughing pile on Christmas morning–actually, no, four actresses pretending to be sisters fall into an ungainly pile. Way to go. Professor Bhaer leaves to go West where they are not so particular about the accent? Ok, who is this guy again? Oh, the guy that has been interspersed into a handful of scenes with no authentic connection or interaction with Jo, who actually acts like she truly hates him? Get out. I wanted to cry because a story I love so much was being treated so very badly. Why didn’t Amy burn Gerwig’s manuscript instead?
While I respect that a film based on a book is a filmmaker’s interpretation and can even exceed the book in some cases (again, see the 1994 version by Gillian Armstrong), what Gerwig did to this story is quite unforgivable, as she tried desperately to put a book published in 1869 into a 2019 context, whereas Armstrong’s version of the story augmented the feminism of the original novel while still remaining true to the novel’s context. Gerwig does this by mixing the story’s creator, Louisa May Alcott, with the story’s heroine, Josephine March. Alcott undoubtedly poured some of her own spirit and beliefs into Jo, but her creation and own life should be considered separate. Alcott initially did not want Jo to marry (hence Jo’s refusal of Laurie’s proposal in the first part of the novel’s second part, “Good Wives”); Alcott herself never married. That does not make it acceptable to change the story by replacing Jo with Alcott–because that is not Jo’s story in Little Women.
Jo detests the idea of marriage throughout much of the novel and expresses her desire not to marry — simply because she loves her family as it is — and she pursues writing as a passion as well as an economic necessity, not as a way to justify a life without marriage. “You I leave to enjoy your liberty till you tire of it,” Marmee tells Jo in Alcott’s novel, “for only then will you find that there is something sweeter.” And so the novel really becomes not about whether or even whom Jo will marry but her journey in discovering that voracious ambition is not a substitute for familial connection. Furthermore, Jo realizes that the two ideas about marriage explored in the novel — marriage can be life’s greatest blessing and marriage should not be the sole purpose and goal of a woman — are not contradictory or opposing. Had such a marriage as the one Alcott creates for her heroine and Professor Bhaer been possible for herself, Alcott would have perhaps entered into a similar union. Jo’s decision to marry Bhaer does not reduce her independence or feminism; it makes her a stronger, more mature character. Alcott understood this. Gerwig meanwhile tries to justify her interpretation by inserting scenes that were never in the novel. Jo reconsiders Laurie’s proposal and voices regret at having turned him down. It is so untrue to the novel and the character, I wanted to gouge my own eyes out in the hopes that I could un-see the travesty.
In It’s A Wonderful Life, George Bailey expresses a similar distaste for marriage. “I don’t want to get married, ever, to anyone. I want to do what I want to do,” he says with intensity, visibly shaking his future wife Mary. Yet, George gives up his dreams of traveling and exploring the world for a married life rife with sacrifices to both his family and community in the place he always wanted to leave, Bedford Falls. George discovers — as does Jo — that these self-sacrifices have made his life that much richer and more wonderful. And so it would seem that in Gerwig’s world, George would need to travel and explore the world to have a wonderful life in order to lend the story relevance and credence. A thousand times NO.
Furthermore, Gerwig forces words into little Amy March’s mouth that she never would have said. “Marriage is an economic proposition.” Well, that is true for Amy, as she has always wanted to marry rich, but the way Gerwig frames the conversation again makes it completely untrue to the character and the novel. Please stop vomiting your postmodern feminism views onto a perfectly pure and independently feminine novel.
I will credit Gerwig with producing a wholesome movie that emphasizes the importance of family relationships with strong, caring female characters amidst the Red Sea of crap that is flooded into movie theaters as a whole in these troubling times. And she does add a few touches that are appropriate and effective — namely, illustrating the art of publishing a book and showing the depth of Mr. Laurence’s love for Beth. Perhaps her film will expose a new generation to the story of the March sisters and inspire them to pick up the novel and hopefully discover for themselves the true story of Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy–and then go back to 1994 to find the most beautiful, wonderful, moving, perfect interpretation of this precious story.
Before I went to the movie theater to see The Joker, I was supposed to see another movie…but never did. And so, for Christmas this year, the local library gifted me with the news that a copy of David Crosby: Remember My Name was ready for pickup! (Thank you Ben Franklin for your genius idea of public libraries.)
David Crosby is a fascinating and engaging character, with a life and career to match, thus making him the perfect subject for a documentary that is humorous, heartbreaking, and honest.
The film opens with Crosby’s lively re-telling of seeing John Coltrane perform with the most intensity in a puke-green-tiled bathroom in Chicago. Music is Crosby’s lifeblood: when Crowe poses the choice of having no music in his life for extreme joy in his home and personal life, Crosby does not hesitate to choose a life filled with music. Music, he feels, is the only thing he has to offer. And while his choice may seem selfish, the camera shows how torn Crosby truly is in the next shot: leaving his beautiful home and family, whom he truly loves, for a six-week tour, from which he may not return because of his health issues. “I hate leaving,” Crosby declares.
Crosby lists his single regret as the time he has wasted “being smashed” and wants more time. Time, he declares, is the final currency, and how does one spend it? The film both explores how Crosby has spent his time and chooses to spend whatever remaining time he has left.
Crosby’s childhood was marked by what he describes as a dysfunctional family — a loving mother, a “crusty”, unaffectionate father (award-winning cinematographer Floyd Crosby, who won a Golden Globe for his work on High Noon) who never once told his son that he loved him, and an older brother, Ethan, also a musician who introduced Crosby to ‘50s jazz, sending him “right down the rabbit hole.” (Ethan committed suicide in the late 1990s. His death is not discussed.) Crosby was a disciplinary problem and was kicked out of every school he ever attended (a foreshadowing of his membership in musical groups); in his words, he was a chubby, lonely kid who desperately wanted attention.
With the massive success of The Byrds in the mid-1960s, Crosby finally gained the attention he had always coveted. Yet, Crosby admits, that success coming at such a young age impaired him from realizing how truly lucky he was. Cut to Crosby observing The Beatles answer banal questions in a 1966 press conference. “Who is the young man with the lengthy haircut to your right rear?” a reporter asks, and Crosby immediately hides. “That’s Dave, isn’t it? Dave Crosby, a mate of ours,” John Lennon replies. “Ahoy matey!” Crosby recalls hanging out with and learning from the Beatles—learning how to be a rock star because “they knew how.” The pure joy and admiration in his eyes as he watches them is clear.
No Russian hats and mustaches yet: Crosby in his famous wide-brimmed hat as a member of The Byrds. Photo by Henry Diltz.
Crosby describes his young self as “young, cocky, arrogant…and a total caboose to my dick.” (Quotes like these — uttered so nonchalantly and honestly — are part of what make this film — and Crosby — so entertaining.) Driving along Sunset Boulevard, Crosby and co. pass the Whisky a Go Go, where Crosby recalls the origin of his dislike of The Doors and Jim Morrison. Morrison approached Crosby and pulled down his shades, telling him, “You can’t hide.” Crosby, irritated, was high on LSD and naturally “teleported to the other side of the room” and never forgave Morrison for his brash comment.
After being fired by The Byrds (the scene is creatively re-told in animation form), Crosby retreated to his other love, sailing. He bought a schooner for $25,000 — loaned to him by Peter Tork — and disappeared into the sea. Sailing, for Crosby, is transformative and restorative. While his senses are bombarded by the filtering of information on land, Crosby claims that every sensation is louder, clearer, and brighter while sailing, not to mention more beautiful and magical. “The ocean is totally real,” Crosby observes. “Opposite of Hollywood.”
The film crew then travels up to Laurel Canyon. Crosby recalls being the first musician to move there, promptly followed by other musicians and thus transforming it into the place for musicians to gather and exchange ideas. They go into the Canyon Country Store, where Crowe asks Crosby what he wishes people really knew and understood about this place.
“It’s not like we hung out here,” Crosby replies. “We just got groceries here. Where do you get coffee here?” he then asks — like any other ding dong tourist lost in a grocery store. Uhhh, Croz, I don’t think he was talking specifically about the store.
“Morrison, what a dork,” he says, pointing at the pictures of The Doors (who, to his knowledge, never lived in the Canyon) decorating the walls of the small store.
The film is littered with moments like these — Crosby visiting sites important to his story: the house where he was fired from the Byrds, the Canyon Country Store, and the house that inspired “Our House,” in the kitchen of which Crosby, Stills, and Nash was born in a matter of minutes.
Later, Crosby visits Kent State University, reflecting on the May 4 shootings. Crosby’s anguishing cries in the song’s fading moments — “Why? How many more?” etc — add emotional weight to the powerful protest song (one of the handful songs written by Neil Young that I can admit to really liking). His anger at the Sergeant who swore to have never fired his weapon is palpable. The song—and what it represented—made Crosby proud that he was finally able to stand up for what he believed in. (Crosby’s firing from the Byrds stemmed from, in part, Crosby’s political comments at the Monterey Pop Festival about President Kennedy’s assassination. His bandmates did not feel that it was appropriate for “pop stars” to voice political opinions.)
Graham Nash has said that David Crosby went to identify the body of his girlfriend Christine Hinton, who died in a car accident, and returned “never the same.” For Crosby, Christine’s death was debilitating. Her death left an emptiness, a huge hole that he wanted to fill, yet he had no tools to deal with his grief except for drugs and alcohol, an addiction that marred Crosby’s life and career for years.
Oops — it’s Nash, Stills, and Crosby posing for their eponymous debut album in 1969. Photograph by Henry Diltz. When the band returned a few days later to correct their error, the house had been torn down — a fitting metaphor for the band itself.
When Crosby, Stills, and Nash were inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 1997, Crosby’s speech was both heartfelt and simple. He thanked his wife and the two men standing next to him for being “his brothers”, continually offering love and support and enabling him to create the music that he had. (I think Stills was ready to cry at that point.)
“I can’t tell you how great it was to be in that band,” Crosby declares, while also stating that CSNY is a completely separate band that should be inducted into the rock and roll hall of fame on their own, even if “just to make Clapton jealous.” And he is right — CSNY is a completely different band. I think Graham Nash put it best in his autobiography when he said that he, David Crosby, and Stephen Stills watched The Beatles in A Hard Day’s Night and decided, “I want to do that.” That being in a cooperative and charismatic band. Neil Young, on the other hand, watched Bob Dylan be a total, selfish jerk in Don’t Look Back and decided that’s what he wanted to do. He waltzed into CSN’s world when it suited him and then called on “artistic freedom” when he wanted out, with no thought or consideration to how that might affect anyone else. It’s like he’s still sulking about being told his voice wasn’t commercial during the recording of the first Buffalo Springfield album and having his songs sung by other band members. Oy, shocker, Einstein. I digress.
One of these is not like the others…
The film shows some home footage of the trio lounging in a backyard somewhere, discussing rehearsals for a tour or an album, I’m not sure. Crosby is relaxing in a hammock when Stephen Stills (bad teeth and all) gets THIS CLOSE to his face and says, “I’m not gonna cop out an inch to fear and he walked out two days in a row you f—ing hypocrite, YOU PISS ME OFF.” Then he storms off. I don’t know what that was all about (Neil Young?????), and I don’t think it was supposed to be funny, but I was laughing out loud–and so was Crosby, ca. 1969. (Maybe not the best idea seeing as Stills was ready to take out some hippies at the Big Sur festival for making fun of his fur coat or something.)
And while these men were once so close, Crosby states that forty years later it changed from a band of brothers with similar creative visions and goals to “just turn on the smoke machine and play the hits” because they could barely stand one another. Crosby’s statements about Neil Young’s girlfriend (gag me) Daryl Hannah (seriously?????) became public (he thought they were “off-the-record” — no excuse — if that’s what you really think, just say it) and seared a rift in the band. The band’s final performance was a dismal rendition of “Silent Night” at the National Christmas Tree Lighting at the White House in 2014.
Crosby admits that his biggest mistake is getting angry. The adrenaline hits his system and bam, instant asshole (hey, his words) — just add water and stir. Yet, there is no real discussion — aside from the passing mention of the fall-out over his comments about Daryl Hannah (for which he belatedly apologized) — of what has inspired such volatile comments about Crosby from his once best friend Graham Nash. (I gather it may be for Crosby’s attitude toward Nash, who like Young, left his wife of decades for a younger woman. Crosby meanwhile has remained faithful to his wife of some thirty-odd years now. I’m not sayin’, I’m just sayin’.) The apparently irreparable break is disheartening.
Crowe reminds Crosby of what he said when they first met in 1974: “My father is 74, he says in the long run the only thing that counts is whether you got any f—ing friends. All the rest is bulls–t. He’s had 74 years to look. I’m inclined to agree with him.”
Crosby admits that he probably made that up–because his father never had any friends.
“What happened to your friends?” Crowe asks.
“That’s really hard,” Crosby answers. “I still have friends. But the main guys I made music with really dislike me.”
Why don’t you make the situation with Neil right and show up on his doorstep? Crowe presses.
“I don’t even know where his doorstep is,” is Crosby’s simple reply.
Yet — back to where the film started — Crosby has chosen to spend his time now making music, even if without these once important men in his life.
The DVD has deleted scenes and extended interviews, some of which I wish had been included in the final film. Chris Hillman tells of what a truly kind friend David Crosby is; Hillman, the scrawny, young kid in The Byrds always felt as if Crosby watched over and looked out for him. McGuinn recalls the joy of meeting Crosby for the first time. Crosby discusses connecting with his first-born son, who was adopted as a baby and now plays with Crosby in his band. Crosby’s wife remembers the agony over Crosby’s liver transplant. Crosby gets on his iMac to tweet in the middle of the night. The man has had such a full and interesting life the film could have gone on for a few hours more and no one would be bored. Remember My Name is an unvarnished and human portrait of one of music’s greatest figures and stories.
An impromptu, iconic photo by Henry Diltz (who makes a great appearance in the film).
And that’s it for 2019, folks. More next year…maybe.
The Hand of Count Petofi 