Fab Foundations # 37: “Lost Weekend”

(Personal reflections inspired by Beatles songs)

Song: “Nobody Loves You (When You’re Down and Out)”
Album: Walls and Bridges
Release Date: September 1974

I have listened to a wide spectrum of Beatles music in my lifetime, including much of their solo material. However, I must admit that my explorations into the Fab’s vast song-composition catalog falls far short of being comprehensive (although I do believe I am pretty darn close to comprehensive in relation to the band’s pre-breakup ensemble years). Indeed, a fair percentage of their post-Beatles material has passed me by to date, which I consider a significant piece of the Fab puzzle. In my defense, there is a lot out there. John Lennon produced 10 studio albums after the Beatles broke up. George Harrison produced 12. Paul McCartney’s output is at 25 and counting. Ringo Starr’s output stands at 18. That’s a boatload of music to take in.

And so, here begins a four-part sub-series of this Fab Foundations narrative where I tackle some of the unheard-until-now stuff.  I’ve done this with all four of my other Music and Memory series (which are based on the music of the Rolling Stones, Neil Young, the Who, and Bob Dylan respectively), but this one has a somewhat unique feel to it. I mean, aren’t we Baby Boomers supposed to know all of the Beatles music, be those songs produced collectively or separately (in which case, they would often request assistance from one another)? I exaggerate here, but there is a bit of truth to that query based on the fact that John, Paul, George and Ringo were, for all intents and purposes, the pop-music spokesmen of our generation. For me, this truism gives these new/old song discoveries from their collective catalog a bit more of a “wow” factor (and as I’ve stated before in these pages, for whatever reason, I love squirreling away unheard music for future consumption, which is playing out now).

As always, I approach this discovery process from the album perspective. I’ve already done my homework, reading up on music-critic reviews to determine which elusive-to-these-ears discs to be the crème of the crop. Now that those discs have been scoped out and secured, I’m ready to roll. Over the next four weeks, I’ll be listening to one album from each of the Fab Four’s solo output that I have never listened to before (to my knowledge). My hope is that I can gain some new insight into the brilliance of what made this foursome tick, as well as what allowed them to connect so amazingly with the world – particularly my 1970’s teenage world - in such profound ways.

I will start with John Lennon, declaring right off that this 4-part-sub-series concept is hardest with this renowned musician, because of the four Beatles, I’ve listened to just about everything Lennon has produced. And yet, there is one significant solo album of John Lennon’s that has slipped through my fingers: Walls and Bridges, which was released in 1974. Several originals on this album were very familiar as I listened this week, including “Whatever Gets You Through the Night” and “# 9 Dream”, but much of the remainder of Walls and Bridges was new to me. I found this hard to believe, but hey, them’s the facts. Part of me was ecstatic though: New music? …John Lennon? …. Yeah!

First, I’d like to say something about the album cover. It’s adorned with John Lennon drawings from his childhood. As I scanned earlier this week, one drawing caught my eye. It’s the lower half of a man’s face which has an uncanny resemblance to what Bob Dylan looks like today. I throw this in here mostly as a side note, but I just had to get it out there.

Much of Walls and Bridges was written near the tail end of John Lennon’s “Lost Weekend” (which lasted more than a year); a period of time where he was estranged from his wife Yoko Ono and their New York home, living fast and hard on the opposite shore (California) with fellow party-hearty enthusiasts, including Harry Nilsson, Alice Cooper, Keith Moon, Ringo Starr and Micky Dolenz (what’s with all the drummers?). A then modern-day Rat Pack. A motley crew prepared to bring down any club that made the unfortunate decision of admitting them.

Looking back, Walls and Bridges was a pivotal album for John Lennon, tackling a major transition in his life. The songs bear this out. We hear Lennon reflecting on his transgressions to the degree that he would come out of this Lost Weekend a new man. Over the subsequent 5 years he would go into professional seclusion, focusing entirely on repairing his relationship with Yoko. In the process, they would bear their only child together, Sean. John Lennon’s focus on fatherhood was so intense that a term from that period of his life would be freshly coined in Beatle-fan circles; that term being “house husband”. This was a big deal to the younger generation of the times, which of course included me. It was a new angle on how to approach life for many of us; a new debate on what was important, and what was not.

If there was any time you were going to have a lost weekend in Rock and Roll circles, this period – the mid-70s - was it. Rock music was at it’s “I am a Golden God” peak. Living legends of the industry were out and about, particularly in New York City and Los Angeles. John Lennon connected with just about every heavy-hitter musician of the day, and the music on Walls and Bridges reflects this. I hear at least three songs that connect me with other classic music of the 70s. There’s the magnificent “Old Dirt Road”, which brings to mind the Rolling Stones “Fool to Cry” (Lennon’s song predated that Stones song by 2 years). “Whatever Gets You Through the Night” has Elton John’s 70’s style written all over it (not the least reason being Sir Elton sings backing vocals on this song). And then there is “Nobody Loves You When You’re Down and Out”, ( https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aaMLCruhQKY  ) which sounds oh so much like the beginning and end of Pink Floyd’s Animals concept album (which Walls and Bridges also predated by several years). I don’t see any of these other efforts as plagiarizing. I just see them as having been inspired by John Lennon. Yes, there was a lot of cross pollinating happening on the mean streets of LA and NYC in the mid-70s.

“Lost Weekends” have always been intriguing to me; be they related to John Lennon, Richard Manuel, Pete Townshend, Keith Richards, Neil Young, Graham Parsons or friends in my own circles. Even myself. Lost weekends can be on the edge of brilliance, loneliness, hilarity, foolishness and lunacy, often the lot of them blended together into one big bowl of unpredictability. There is risk involved to both health and hearth, which is why many avoid such escapades (honestly, I can’t blame them). But at the same time, in a nonsensical way, lost weekends can be cleansing and cathartic if you find a way to rise up through the ashes.

I still connect with this “Lost Weekend” world on the odd occasion. Most consistently this plays out at annual forays to my great friend Mac’s cottage in Humarock (a tiny coastal hamlet in Scituate, Massachusetts) with a number of childhood friends. Those experiences have not been averse to Rat Pack mentality. The saving grace has always been the long-term friendship we all share and… the beach. With the friendship, I’m forever rejuvenated by an endless parade of inside jokes. It’s almost as if we have created our own language. The laughs come early and often. Many of these laughs can be downright hysterical.

The beach is another matter. A short stroll there puts you in another much more contemplative mindset. These breakaway retreats to the ocean are needed amidst all the hullabaloo. Looking back, they give my memories of Humarock a proper balance and deeper meaning (a good example of this is that I’ve come up with a handful of blog-entry ideas there). My guess is that John Lennon did something similar in his crazed year on the west coast. Something like it would have been critical in his preparation for that next phase of his journey as house husband (which would turn out to be his last phase).

Walls and Bridges is aptly named. Lost weekends can find you building a wall around yourself, such as happens to the protagonist in Pink Floyd’s The Wall.  But mix in enough of those beach-like breakaways and you just might be able to get glimpses of the brilliant bridges you can build in the days, weeks, months and years beyond.

- Pete

Fab Foundations # 36: “A Bum Rap”

(Personal reflections inspired by Beatles songs)

Song: “Live and Let Die”
Album: Released as a single
Release Date: June 1973

Pete Townshend once took a stab at defining Rock and Roll:

"If it screams for truth rather than help, if it commits itself with a courage it can't be sure it really has, if it stands up and admits that something is wrong but doesn't insist on blood, then its rock and roll."

I embrace this definition. There are many popular songs that sound like rock music, but in the end if you can’t assign that underlying meaning to the song, then in my mind it’s on the outside looking in. There has to be some risk involved. Some juicy element that makes the listener ponder. An angle on hope or yearning. Songs with these elements will survive the test of time. The others will just fade away (if they have not done so already).

Somewhat randomly off the top of my head I thought of a cross-section-list of songs that would, on musical merits alone, fall in the genera of Rock and Roll. However, in terms of Pete Townshend’s definition, some of these songs may not necessarily fit the criterion. Which ones do and which ones don’t? …

“Mr. Tambourine Man” (Bob Dylan); “Johnny B Goode” (Chuck Berry); “Crazy Little Thing Called Love” (Queen); “Have a Cigar” (Pink Floyd); “Purple Haze” (Jimi Hendrix); “Smells Like Teen Spirit” (Nirvana); “Slip Kid” (Who); “White Punks on Dope” (Tubes); “Southern Man” (Neil Young); “Dude Looks Like a Lady” (Aerosmith); “Smoke on the Water” (Deep Purple); “What’s the Matter Here” (10,000 Maniacs); “Willie the Wimp” (Stevie Ray Vaughan); “Stairway to Heaven” (Led Zeppelin); “It’s Only Rock and Roll” (Rolling Stones); “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap” (AC/DC); “Back on the Chain Gang” (Pretenders); “Up on Cripple Creek” (Band); “London Calling (Clash); “Rock Lobster” (B-52’s); “Lola” (Kinks); “Come Together” (Beatles).  

I’ll let you be the judge on that list (for me, three of them fail and one teeters on the border), but I will weigh in on one song for this entry, which may give some insight to my stances on that cross-section list. That song is “Live and Let Die” by Paul McCartney and Wings. I’ve been thinking about this tune in context with the Pete Townshend definition of Rock and Roll all week. In fact, I’ve been thinking about this off and on all year. Indeed, “Live and Let Die” has been percolating in my head throughout this entire Fab Foundations series. I can’t explain why, but it has. It was never about whether this McCartney hit is a great song, which is my standard reason for choosing any given composition for my weekly narrative (although I do believe it is a very good song). No, it was always about that Pete Townshend-initiated “is it Rock and Roll or is it not” question.

Paul and Linda McCartney wrote “Live and Let Die” for the 1973 James Bond movie of the same name. It actually takes top billing, opening the film in grand fashion (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eBC1FquIrZo). Was it composed just for the fun of it? To make a bit of cash on the side? To booze and schmooze with Hollywood royalty? I’m not ruling those options out as being part of the McCartney’s motivation. But there are elements at play here that lead me to believe there is more to it than that.

Well alrighty then, does “Live and Let Die” fit Pete Townshend’s meaning of a rock song”? My initial inclination was “on the contrary”. After all, this song declares shallow human traits, including those of being cutthroat, self-centered and defeatist. The title of the song alone is sinister enough, and the lyrics back it up. Take this line: “what does it matter to ya, when you got a job to do ya gotta do it well. You gotta give the other fella hell!”. Earlier in the song it’s as if the protagonist gives up on being compassionate. Yow! Yes, the music is powerful, but all-in-all does the song “stand up and admit that something is wrong”? Does it “commit itself with a courage it can’t be sure it really has”?

In actuality yes, it does (in a veiled sort of way).

Sometimes a song needs to tell the truth by taking the counterpoint/low-road position. Randy Newman is a master at it, having composed brilliant tunes such as “Political Science”, “Short People” “Yellow Man” and “Its Money that Matters”. These songs are all from the perspective of the anti-hero. However, when you think about it, what better way to point out the nasty than to take on the musical roll yourself? 

Paul McCartney is the last musician I would have expected to write the lyrics to a rock song like “Live and Let Die” though. I mean, the guy is the consummate believer, isn’t he? This is why “Live and Let Die” can be so strange to hear if you know anything about the musician who penned it (even if the song was written for a spy movie). Does this sound like McCartney:

“When you were young
And your life was an open book
You used to say live and let live
(you know you did you know you did you know you did)
But if this ever changin’ world in which we live in
Makes you give in and cry
Say live and let die”

It shows me that Paul McCartney is more complex than what many Rock music fans give him credit for. Here’s an interesting thought: Which Beatle stood for the meaning of the utopian 60s the most? Maybe it was George with his spiritual awakening? Or John with his political stance for peace? Perhaps it was Ringo with his ability to always bring out the better person in those around him (“peace and love, folks”)? Or was it Paul with his laid-back persona that oozes hope.

I posed this question to several Beatles forums on Facebook this week and got back over 100 responses. It was roughly what I expected: 76 votes for John Lennon (55%), 22 votes for George (16%), 6 votes for Paul (4%) and 5 for Ringo (3%). There were also 25 votes for ‘all 4 of them’ (18%). Oh, also 2 votes for Pete Best and 1 for Stu Sutcliffe (go figure). Not to mention 1 that basically said, ‘You Suck!’ (I would have been disappointed if I didn’t get one of those).

I ran this question by Beatles fans because, although I would typically agree with this breakdown, I had a bit of a lightbulb moment this week as I listened to “Live and Let Die”. It is such a real and insightful song. It helped guide me to the notion that maybe Paul McCartney gets a bum rap when it comes to authentication. Such a question as the one I posed drives at the heart of the matter.

Dig under the surface, and more of the 60s-persona-light shines on Paul McCartney. He was after all the Utopian spirit behind the money-hemorrhaging corporation that was Apple Records. And more than John, George, and Ringo, Paul McCartney incorporated all forms of modern art into his life in the late 60s. McCartney was also the Beatle out-and-about the London scene during that time too (he was an early enthusiast of the Syd Barret-lead Pink Floyd in their wild stage-experimentation years), while the other 3 Beatles were immersed in domesticity. You have to drill deeper into the Beatles story to connect with these facts. Deeper than most are willing to do.

Yes, “Live and Let Die” is a dour song. Here’s the paradox though: Only someone with Paul McCartney’s hopeful outlook on mankind could write such lyrics and sing them in such a deeply-reflective way. From his rosy perspective, McCartney was able to view the darker side objectively. I’m not saying he was blind to negativity and self-centeredness…life experience to that point clearly factored to his opening eyes, including the Beatles rancorous “divorce”. But the concept was foreign enough for him to see it for what it was and compose a narrative around it.

With all this in mind, the song fits the Pete Townshend definition of a Rock song.

The Beatles contributed significantly to the idealism of the 60s. They all bought into it. And they each had to change aspects of who they were to get there, none of them more so than Paul McCartney. I know this because when I read of the Beatles younger days, the band member who reminds me the most of myself (in my younger days) is McCartney. Like Paul, I could be opportunistic and cunning and shrewd. Maybe I still got a little of that in me at times, but I do my best to squelch it. This, because even though I came of age in the 70s, I too have bought into the spirit of the 60s. In fact, anyone who takes their 70s’ teen-years seriously is really just a child of the 60s. Live and let live, folks! Live and let live.

-  Pete

Fab Foundations # 35: “A Brief (but invaluable) Stint with Beatles Collectibles”

(Personal reflections inspired by Beatles songs)

Song: “I Saw Her Standing There”
Album: Please Please Me
Release Date: March 1963

Back in Fab Foundations #9, I wrote about the amazing record collection of my longtime friend Pete’s older brother Paul, which consisted primarily of Beatles albums. Pete and I would admire this well-kept collection from time to time back when we were teenagers in the 70s. Paul’s Beatles collection included rarity-albums, along with scores of original singles with their accompanying picture sleeves.

I was collecting other things at the time, including coins and comic books, but for a brief period I saved up my paper-route cash to delve into the world of Beatles-collectibles myself. The highlight of this short stint was a trip into the city to attend a Beatles convention of which the centerpiece was the buying and selling of Beatles memorabilia. My sole reason for going was to purchase collectible items for myself, particularly singles with pictures sleeves.

Aware of my interest, Pete’s brother Paul had informed me of this convention and drove a group of us in (this also being a period of time that predated my friends and I being of driving age). It was great having Paul there because this sort of thing was old hat to him, which gave me the peace-of-mind that I would not be ripped off and maybe even find a good deal. I had nothing in particular in mind other than purchasing original singles with intact picture sleeves. For the most part, I simply wanted to find items that caught my eye.

The details are sketchy, but I do recall a handful of vendor tables where I spent most of my time poking through the collectibles. I also remember one of these vendors - who resembled Santa Claus - talking up his wares. Throughout my shopping experience Paul gave me space, but he was never too far off to help guide me. I had about $200 to spend and figured I’d break it up to 5 items, seeing that the average price for the Beatles singles was running at about $40 (although some items, like the infamous “Butcher Cover” and the “Two Virgins” album were running for way more than that).

I homed in on my choices, and after some very helpful haggling on Paul’s part, I was able to get a pretty good lumped discount; 5 Beatles singles that ranged from $30-$60 at a group-discount price. These singles ended up being 1) “I Saw Her Standing There”/”I Want To Hold Your Hand” 2) “Nowhere Man”/”What Goes On” 3) “Lady Madonna”/”The Inner Light” 4) “Hello Goodbye”/”I Am The Walrus” and 5) “All You Need Is Love”/”Baby, You’re a Rich Man”. The sleeves and discs were all in very good condition. Right off, it felt great having them in my possession. I thanked Paul for all his help, and after poking around for a bit longer (while Paul made a few purchases for himself) we headed for home.

I went down cellar this week and pulled out those 5 singles (photo below) and for the first time in a long time I decided to remove them from their hermetically sealed vacuum packings (slight exaggeration there). Were these distinctive collectibles going to fall apart in my hands? Turn to dust? Thankfully no, but nonetheless I did handle them with extreme care. My hope was that by holding and observing these singles in such a way, I would rekindle some of those feelings I had when I first made that purchase over 45 years ago.

What makes an item valuable? I’m not necessarily talking about this in a monetary way. I mean, sure, there is a monetary aspect to any item’s value, but it’s way more than that. One man’s trash is another man’s treasure, or so they say. And yet, as they also say, you can’t take it with you. For this and other reasons, I lost interest long ago in collecting things. But I still value greatly many of the items I once collected, and I am thankful I still have most of them. My linkage to these material things - be they cereal box “Funny Fringes”, hockey autographs, comic books, Britain’s LTD plastic animals, coins, monster models, old magazines, or Beatles pictures sleeves - is a key reason why I am able to write this Music and Memory blog series. All these items are blasts from the past that stir up the imagination.

The picture sleeves remind me of my old paneled bedroom on Park Road, Franklin, Massachusetts, where I was surrounded by all these collectibles. Case in point, two of my four bureau draws, which would normally be dedicated to clothing, were instead dedicated to comic books, along with those five Beatles picture-sleeve singles. I kept the singles in the corner of the upper comic-book draw, propped up by one of my 20 or so comic series (I’m guessing it was the Avengers, seeing as it was the highest stack). My room was like a sanctuary to me. It was the one place that I could make completely unique unto myself.

On the top of my bureau was my turntable and speakers. I remember one time playing the Rolling Stones’ “Can’t You Hear Me Knocking” for my Dad to hear. Dad was impressed but gave the credit for the quality sound to my stereo system (vs. the Stones – Ha!). I had built up a nice album collection by the time I’d left for college, including Joe Jackson, Supertramp, and a good number of Beatles albums. My brother Fred, whose room was adjacent to mine, had built up a nice collection too. His albums included a handful of great Kinks music, as well as assorted new wave and punk. I give credit to Fred for getting me into the Stones with his “Hot Rocks” album (Side note to Fred: We should have discussed this last year when we attended that great Rolling Stones show).

My sister Jen also had some good music blaring from her room, which was diagonal to mine. I’m thinking we competed for volume and so shut our doors when necessary. Jen introduced the household to Pink Floyd and Led Zeppelin (Side note to Jen: We should have discussed this 2 years ago when we attended that fabulous Roger Waters show. Come to think of it, maybe we did!). Brother Joe rounded out the Rock craze from his room - which was 2 doors down - with his excellent cassette collection (sadly this collection would be stolen from him before he set off for college). Joe had a great assortment of Rolling Stones albums, as well as Tom Petty and other classic rock staples (Side note to Joe: You have to get hard copies of at least half of that old collection so you can get that old Musical Mojo back. I'll help!).

I was the Beatles sibling. We all loved them, and we all had their music in our collections, but I pushed the envelope with the deeper stuff (which included selections from their solo efforts). I did this until I discovered the Who during my Freshman year in college. From there, the floodgates opened with my Rock and Roll explorations. But make no doubt about it, the Fab Four were the Foundation.

The collectible picture-sleeve singles were rarely if ever played. They were there for show: Mine that is, not anyone else’s. Afterall, if they were for everyone, I would have displayed them somewhere in the open. But they were tucked in my draw, where only I would observe them on a regular basis. In this way, I suppose they acted as a keepsake…my personal linkage to a then-recent past that was very significant to me. I’m happy to say this remains the case.

It’s funny that I never added to that core collection. But it was enough for me. Those 5 singles validated my immersion into all things Beatles. Those 5 singles authenticated my bedroom as being part of the Magical Mystery Tour. Those discs gave me informal card-carrying membership to the ever-expanding fan base. Taking it a bit further those 5 singles gave me membership to a Rock culture that believed in something novel, real and intrinsic, which made it all the easier to take bold forays into that brave new world.

I dedicate this entry to the song “I Saw Her Standing There” (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xjt1gQI3o1k), which is track 1 on the very first Beatles album, Please Please Me (and of my 5 singles, it’s Side A on the oldest one). This url link shows a bass-player’s cover of said song. I have watched this video often. It was one of the first tunes I learned on bass, and I enjoy it to this day because it is both complex and fun at the same time. Mostly, however, “I Saw Her Standing There” is a reminder of a time in my life when it was all about collectibles. What an invaluable time it was.

- Pete

Fab Foundations # 34: “The Mountain”

(Personal reflections inspired by Beatles songs)

Song: “Strawberry Fields Forever”
Album: Released as a single
Release Date: February 1967

Much of this week’s entry is scavenged from an entry in my Stepping Stones series from 8 years ago. I could not resist replicating here (with a handful of modifications both to add clairvoyance as well as to fit this entry’s narrative) because as be the case with John Lennon, I too have a childhood memory of a dreamy place where only kids seemed to be able to find. John Lennon’s was Strawberry Fields. Mine was “The Mountain” near the home of my upbringing in Franklin, Massachusetts.

And so, without further ado….

I can still conjure up an image of the place as if I were there just yesterday. When you spend hundreds of hours at a naturally impressive and seemingly clandestine location, as a crew of us did over 5 or so years in the mid-70s, it’s not too difficult to get instant recall. Such was the case with “The Mountain” of my youth; a mere fifteen minute walk from home, yet for all intents and purposes, a world away. It’s been gone for decades now. I’ll talk about how that all came about in short order, including the period of time when we knew its days were numbered.

But first, please allow me to describe this wonderland of my youth for both nostalgic and preservation purposes.

The approach was from the west along an old logging road, a handful of downed trees and large well-placed boulders impeding motorized progress and revealing this passage as having seen more ‘useful’ days. Looming up ahead was our destination, The Mountain (see the rough sketch below for reference); a sizable expanse of rocky outcrop with a number of intriguing features, most of them tucked in and around what I will refer to here as the Inner Bowl. With the Inner Bowl at its core, one could think of The Mountain as loosely similar in shape to Boston’s Hatch Shell. The inside of this bowl was where we would spend most of our time.

The far side of the Inner Bowl was partly visible at several vantage points along the logging road. As you got closer though, you lost view of it, as the road angled slightly to the right backside of the bowl. Here a trail-head began its ascent just on the outside rim of the bowl. This was a steep, narrow, scraggly path consisting of both stretches of loose stone and smooth, solid rock. You had to be careful hiking up it on wet and icy days, although there were two small trees for support at several critical junctures (one of which broke off at its roots after years of overuse).

Most of this entry trail was concealed from the Inner Bowl, but about half way up it, you could cut off to the left around a knob and sneak your way inside the bowl via a protuberance followed by a long thin ridge line. Not everyone dared this route, but good friend Bruce would traverse it as if he were strolling through the park. More often however we would all stick to the main trail all the way to the top.

Ah, the top of The Mountain, which I will affectionately call here The Summit. Now, I’ve hiked up many a geologically-designated mountain in my day and in the process gained a feel for what to expect when emerging onto higher ground: That transition from a sheltered canopy to an exposed one. Amazingly, this relatively low-lying crest had the feel of one of those true summits; the pitch pines and scrub oaks were scraggly and stunted, with a windblown look to them. Tucked inside this grove of trees were blueberry bushes and a small clearing with an old abandoned rock fire pit in the middle (which we would use in the latter years of our journeys there).

On the far side of this clearing was a final vertical heave of outcrop jutting just high enough to declare itself The Pinnacle (although no official benchmark by the USGS to distinguish it as such). Here, along with a few other locations in the general area of The Summit, were far ranging views in most directions. Looking back, I believe we were instinctively correct in dubbing this grand place “The Mountain” (despite good friend John’s attempts to keep our grasp on reality in check by regularly reminding us it was just a hill).

The trail continued past The Summit, and as you followed it a tad further, it looped back to the upper ridge of the Inner Bowl, the heart of The Mountain. There was not much space between the tree/shrub line and the cliff edge, but there were a few ledges to step out onto. One of these overhanging ledges hovered over a mid-upper level ridge below it, which itself was above the long thin ridge line mentioned earlier. This mid-upper level ridge was where I would spend countless hours with good friend Phil during our middle-school years, the two of us chipping ceaselessly away at the granite with any number of tools from crowbar to hammer. In the process, we grooved out a wider and wider platform for us to hang out on while also making a cave beneath the overhang above us.

Several more ridges scattered about the bowl at various levels would be occupied by my brothers Fred and Joe, as well as friends Bruce and Jeff (aka “the Piz” as in Pizarro), and occasionally other friends; they themselves also chipping away with an assortment of tools. Together, I suppose we were unknowingly creating our own version of Mount Rushmore, or at the very least we were excavating; exposing rock (and fossils?... quite often we were convinced) that had not seen the light of day since at least just before the last ice age.

Much of the Inner Bowl was littered with rubble, including the bottom, where one very large boulder stood out. We would use that boulder to prop targets on top of, picking them off with rocks thrown from the top rim (these targets included glass bottles which we would collect at a reliable party location for driving-age teens on the way). Bruce was always an extremely accurate hurler, but we all had our fair share of highlight-reel moments. We would take turns to go down to the bottom to set more targets up.

After chipping away at The Mountain off and on for a few years and hurling the rocks below, we had pretty much doubled the amount of debris at the bottom. This new debris included one particularly humongous chunk-o-pried-out ledge which took out a 20-foot tree on its way down. It would rest permanently next to the other large boulder and soon got used as a backup for more target-practice items.

Back to the trail which, after continuing beyond the top of the Inner Bowl, approached the most distinctive feature on the entire escarpment: An almost square ledge which had the appearance of “Frankenstein’s Head” (which I will officially christen here). This feature jutted out just beyond the Inner Bowl, perfectly defining the far side of the bowl (looking up from the bottom of the bowl you would have Frankenstein’s Head to the left and the aforementioned concealed trail-head to the right). Frankenstein’s Head gave the entire location a Wild-Wild West feel about it. It was the one part of The Mountain you really could not climb without rope and carabiners. God knows how we tried though, and I believe Bruce (again) figured it out once or twice.

Just beyond Frankenstein’s Head, past the Inner Bowl, was a nice stretch of climbing rock where you could practice your finger and toe holds, getting really good at it with repetition. Tucked in the middle of that vertical challenge was a crevasse area to rest and regroup. I believe some of this zone survives to this day. After this stretch, the exposed rock petered out to the great woods beyond. We ultimately discovered that woods in equally intense fashion, but that’s a story for another time.

This was a world all to ourselves. On the rare occasion when we were visited by strangers, they would usually get the hint that they may be intruding. The hint was delivered not so much by us as by our dogs, Nicky and Whiskers, who maintained constant vigilance on The Summit. Inevitably, folks would either turn around or saunter on by (and if they had read “Lord of the Flies” at any time in their lives, they may have sauntered a bit quicker).

Many great times were had on The Mountain, be they related to climbing, chipping, exploring, hurling, hiking, chilling, biking, or later, midnight fire stoking. It was a magical place; a natural fun house. Our own Strawberry Fields. What we did not realize in our earliest years there, though, but which would become more obvious to us over time, was that this land was actually owned by someone, deed and all. That entity was the Franklin Lumber Company, and their developed piece of property was adjacent, through a small patch of woods beyond the trail-head on the southwest side. Unbeknownst to us, they were apparently becoming increasingly aware of our activities and increasingly interested in this piece of land for their own uses.

I believe it was Bruce who first got wind of the lumber company’s initial wave of encroachment onto The Mountain; the lower sections of the more gradually sloping hillside leading up to it from the east backside had been stripped bare of trees. Our world was still fully intact, but the space between this wonderland and the real world next door had narrowed considerably. And rumor that this was just a first step was mounting, turning scary possibility into more-scary inevitability. For reasons that have never been fully explained to me, the Franklin Lumber Company was intent on wiping out The Mountain. Perhaps it was a liability issue. Perhaps other kids who came later had squandered the privilege of enjoying this land as there were reports of theft and vandalism in the lumber yard.

Squatters Rights were not in the cards. As we were growing up, each visit back had the feel of being the last. On a handful of occasions, I would go down there alone. The Mountain felt like no other place on Earth to me. It was a place of alternate reality, where I could be whisked away to the fringes of imagination. It was perfect. Knowing what was in store for The Mountain, I would savor those moments.

“Strawberry Fields Forever” ( https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HtUH9z_Oey8 ) was John Lennon’s proudest contribution to the Beatles. It is truly a watershed song, particularly considering how revolutionary it was at the time of release. The video does a fantastic job of capturing childhood imagination (and in turn capturing the essence of the meaning of the song). The tree, piano, strings, lighting, decorations, and even the way the Beatles move about all factor into this and remind me so wonderfully of my days on The Mountain.

The Franklin Lumber Company did indeed plow The Mountain asunder, actually managing to get their heavy equipment on top of The Summit from behind, wiping it and the entire Inner Bowl out. It was a hard pill to swallow and was likely an early impetus to my conservation leanings. After-all, The Mountain and the land around it was a natural gem.

And so, for now, The Mountain only lives in my memory, but something tells me that one day I’ll be standing on The Summit again, looking to my right at Frankenstein’s Head, to my left at the scraggly-trail entrance way, and straight ahead at the Inner Bowl. And as the mountain-top breeze ruffles my hair I will smile broadly and then suddenly feel as light as a feather.

- Pete

Fab Foundations # 33: “Going Back to the White Well (4 of 4)"

(Personal reflections inspired by Beatles songs)

Song: “Revolution 1”
Album: The Beatles
Release Date: November 1968

Concluding my White Album review song by song, here I tackle side 4. If you have not already done so, I suggest reading the introduction to Fab Foundations # 4 as a prelude to this entry ( https://pete-gemsandbeyond.blogspot.com/2020/01/fab-foundations-4-going-back-to-white.html ) seeing as it explains my personal introduction to the White Album on Christmas Day as a young teenager many years ago. Side 2 is tackled in Fab Foundations # 15 ( https://pete-gemsandbeyond.blogspot.com/2020/04/fab-foundations-15-going-back-to-white.html ). Side 3 gets fleshed out in Fab Foundations # 25 ( https://pete-gemsandbeyond.blogspot.com/2020/06/fab-foundations-25-going-back-to-white.html ).

Side 4 of the White Album has always been the most secluded of Beatles album sides to me (there is one big reason for this, which I will explain). When I listen, I feel as if I’ve gone off the beaten track and found a cool hidden cave.  As I mentioned in my original “Going Back to the White Well” Fab Foundations entry (# 4), when I first listened to this seminal album, I was very methodical, taking in each song in the proper sequence. Seeing as virtually all the songs were new to these ears on that Christmas morning, by the time I finally flipped to side 4, I was already pretty much overwhelmed. My brain could only take in so much in one sitting. Yes, it would take some time for side 4 to register as deeply as the others, but right off I knew it too was special.

As with the other 3 entries, I will type my thoughts as I listen on headphones.

White Album, Side 4 (of 4)

“Revolution 1” (John). One thing you could always count on with a John Lennon vocal was attitude. This certainly bears out on “Revolution 1”. When you are in your formative years, listening to a song with this type of attitude can be very powerful. In my generation it was a big draw with Rock and Roll. It’s also a big reason why rap music has been so popular with my son Peter’s generation. At some point in your young life, you get the sense that there will be times when you are going to have to make a stand for something you believe in – or don’t believe in - and when you do so, you better be able to show the other side you are serious.

There was never any wishy-washy aspect to John Lennon’s delivery in his songs. He projected himself in a way that gave the impression he meant what he said. Note the caveat ‘gave the impression’. Lennon was not obstinate; unwilling to change his position on something. Case in point, when Lennon sings the line “But when your talk about destruction, don’t you know that you can count me out”, he adds the word “in” at the end. In other words, …. it depends. Somehow Lennon is able to take two sides of the debate here. You can only do something like that with the kind of attitude he had.

‘It depends’ is what is really at the heart of the meaning of the song “Revolution 1”. John Lennon was by that time (1968) tuning into the peace movement and the Vietnam protests happening in America and elsewhere. He could see many very good willed people in support of these causes, but he could also see the occasional twisted mindset taking things a bit to the extreme. I may not have been able to articulate what I heard the first time I listened as a kid, but I recall vividly understanding the logic.

“Honey Pie” (Paul). The Beatles sound like they are having a lot of fun in the studio here. I love the ad-libbed “yeah” at the end of John Lennon’s nifty guitar solo during the bridge (it sounds like Lennon who is doing the ad-libbing).  George Harrison sounds funky taking a rare turn on the bass. But it’s mostly Paul McCartney who makes this song happen, channeling a throwback British music-hall style in flawless fashion.

The first thing I tuned into when I heard “Honey Pie” was the singer pining for his lover overseas. It’s been a familiar theme in our Covid household these past months, our daughter, Charlotte, longing for her significant-other, Andres, who is also overseas (a reunion incredibly played itself out this week). Love can be painful sometimes, especially when it’s a long-distance affair.

Earlier in this “Going Back to the White Well” sub-series, I suggested that my parents may not have known quite what they were doing when they purchased the “White Album” for me back when I was at my most impressionable (instead of say, something more innocent from earlier in the Beatles career, like Meet the Beatles or A Hard Day’s Night). But songs like “Honey Pie”, “Martha My Dear”, and “Good Night” counterbalance this notion a bit. Regardless, somehow the harsh (“Revolution 1”) and the gentle (“Honey Pie”) all fit together like a glove.

“Savoy Truffle” (George). The White Album was only the 3^rd Beatles album I really tuned into (after the greatest-hits “Red Album” and Sgt Pepper) and every song composed by George Harrison that I heard to that point was serious and heavy, including his 3 other compositions on this album; “While My Guitar Gently Weeps”, “Piggies”, and “Long, Long, Long”. And so, it was refreshing to hear something that sounded fun from him, at least lyrically. I mean, a song about truffles and other desserts can only be fun, right?

Still, the music and George’s vocals suggest something deeper is going on, which has always been my suspicion. The lyrics of the first bridge alone are testament to this take on the song meaning:

“You might not feel it now
But when the pain cuts through
You’re going to know and how
The sweat is going to fill your head
When it becomes too much
You’ll shout aloud”

Is George joking about his friend Eric Clapton’s chocolate cravings or is this a veiled attempt to address what it’s like to be in the throes of heroin addiction? Is this song a precursor to John Lennon’s “Cold Turkey”?

I never really dwelled on this to much, because I was always too busy enjoying the music.  “Savoy Truffle” is a fantastic, up-tempo Rock song, further revealing the capabilities of a band at the top of its craft (particularly Ringo Starr on drums).

“Cry Baby Cry” (John). If side 4 had me feeling as if I’d gone off the beaten track and discovered a hidden cave, “Cry Baby Cry” was the ancient cave painting on the inside walls. The quirky eccentricities of a royal family seem to be at least part of the story here. But the real story is the music, which is mysterious and sedated; almost menacing. You get the sense you’re in an old mansion, with rooms upon rooms of unused space, all wide open to mischief of one kind or another. The Fall of the House of Usher. The Shining.

I like the background sound effects near the beginning of the third verse; uppity conversation with the duchess over clinking glasses. There is all sorts of vocals and instrumentation coming in and out throughout (including George Martin on the harmonium). Just another day of studio innovation for the Beatles.

As he is wont to do, Paul McCartney’s tags a somewhat isolated ditty to “Cry Baby Cry” at the end. It is even more eerie than the rest of the song. “Can you take me back where I’ve been from, can you take me back” he repeats. For me it reaffirms the lost-souls feel of the rest of the song, as if they are longing for a glorious time-gone-by that has been lost forever.

“Revolution 9” (John). Can this be classified as a song? I’m not so sure. However, I am confident to say that “Revolution 9” (aka ‘Number 9’) can be classified as one of the most bizarre things you will ever hear on a record. To simply be there on one of the most acclaimed albums of all time is what astounds. How did John Lennon get away with it?  How did he get away with so many other things in his oh-too-short a life? Well, ‘Number 9’ pretty much says it all. Lennon rarely allowed conventional thought to get in the way of his ideas. His resistance to selling out and his brutal honesty is a huge piece of what made the Beatles so successful. So, everyone else dealt with it.

When best buddy Mac and I went to the Berklee Performance Center to watch an incredible show that covered the White Album from beginning to end (as discussed in Fab Foundations # 25), “Revolution 9” was the only thing the musicians could not perform. Instead, when it came to this cut, the original was queued up and an amazing kaleidoscope of images played out on a big screen, which was very appropriate.

"Revolution 9” is likely the reason why side 4 of the White Album feels so secluded. When you put the side on the turntable back in the day, you knew you were in for an 8 minute stretch of absolute weirdness. Was it worth it? Frequently the self-answer was “no”.  Maybe when you are on your own, but when hosting others?  I for one would think… “ahh, let’s see, what else is in the record bin”. And yet, is a strange way, it’s comforting to know ‘Number 9’ will always be there.

“Revolution 9” kinda proves that, not only were the Beatles the first band I got into; arguably they were the most radical (which played out in many other ways too, including their utopian approach to Apple Records Corp, which hemorrhaged money because of their overall radical philosophy). It’s incredible to think that a band of such unique prominence can be labeled as such.

“Good Night” (John).  This was the only song on the White Album where the principle songwriter was not also the singer. In fact, John Lennon does not even appear on this song in any capacity. Neither do Paul McCartney or George Harrison. It’s all Ringo Starr, George Martin and orchestral strings.

The Beatles touched on an incredible range of musical genre on the White Album, so why not toss in an original lullaby for good measure. “Good Night” appropriately closes the album. What with the barrage and range of the 29 songs that preceded it one would almost need a good-nights-sleep to recover, especially when hearing most of them for the first time. On that Christmas Day, with my new turntable and album sitting in front of me, I was both cooked and exhilarated. I’m willing to believe my overtaxed brain was more than ready for some zz- zz’s by days end.

Pete

Fab Foundations # 32: “All For One and One For All"

(Personal reflections inspired by Beatles songs)

Song: “All Together Now”
Album: Yellow Submarine
Release Date: January 1969

This past week I watched my fourth (of 5) Beatles movies for this Fab Foundations blog series; Yellow Submarine. John, Paul, George, and Ringo did not actually participate in the making of this film, but they did compose and perform every song that was used in it - including 4 originals - and they all ended up being very pleased with the results. In a gesture of solidarity, the Fab Four appear at the end of the film – my favorite part. I’ll get to that soon enough.

I watched this movie once before, a very long time ago on the telly. I cannot remember the context or the year, but I’m thinking it was with family members (and maybe even a few cousins) way back when we were all pre-teens. It may have even been not long after the movie was released. If so, it would have been one of my very first Beatles experiences. The film was impressionable on me back then, and I’m happy to say after my viewing this week that it still is.

Yellow Submarine was a labor of love. It was directed by animation producer George Dunning, who hailed from Canada (why am I not surprised by this – see Fab Foundations # 29). In a nutshell, Dunning was stunning. He and his animation crew capture the spirit of the Beatles and the spirit of the times in a production that was a technical marvel for its day and age.  It’s a wonderful period piece, but also manages to translate well to our current times.

The basic plot is about an extraordinary underwater utopian world called Pepperland (similar enough in name to my hometown of Pepperell to have me imagine I was living there this week) that comes under attack by the bloated, distorted “Blue Meanies” and their evil minions. The Blue Meanies despise anything that is creative, musical and artistic, in other words… anything they can’t wrap their feeble minds around. A ship captain from Pepperland, “Old Fred”, manages to escape in the community’s Yellow Submarine, taking it to the seaport city of Liverpool where he enlists the Beatles for help. The trip back is rife with peril, but in the end the 5 of them make it and free the magical Pepperland from its captors.

I recalled this week that when I was a kid watching the movie, I found the Blue Meanies more comical than anything. This time around I found them a bit more disturbing. Back then I did not understand that when it comes to limited minds in power, art is one of the many things that comes under attack. Now I understand this full well.  

However, Yellow Submarine is primarily a positive experience, and what it captures better than anything is the casual, almost friendly way in which the Beatles confront their adversaries. In the real world, the Fab Four had a natural wit and wisdom about them that rubbed off on an entire generation. This comes across fantastically well in the film, despite the fact that other actors were used to portray their animated selves. Indeed, it’s become clear to me in this my personal year of the Beatles, that being a Beatle was not only about creating music. It was also about how this band projected themselves as they created, which played out throughout their ~ 10 year existence. Each one of them was extremely comfortable in his own skin. This, along with the music, put them in rarified air.

Quite often during this Fab Foundations series, I’ve thought about how it all clicked so well for the Beatles, and I believe a big part of it comes down to their extremely unique collective mentality. In fact, I’ve dwelled on this general concept throughout my 10 years of blog writing…. this notion of “in what forum is there more potential: One where you create something in a collective way or one where you create something on your own?”. There’s no easy answer, but my leanings continue to be in the group setting.

Collectively, the Beatles caught everyone’s attention in a very big way. When they went their own separate ways, they lost much of that. After the breakup, their individual personalities projected more to the general public. Paul McCartney projected more as the superstar, jet-setter extrovert. George Harrison projected more as the spiritual recluse. Ringo Starr projected more as the good time Charlie (for a spell). John Lennon projected more as the idealist hippie beatnik. The projection was real. They all continued to be successful, but to various degree they lost their mojo (keeping in mind that that mojo had supersized – virtually impossible – shoes to fill).

Yes, creativity can come either collectively or individually (which the Beatles proved when they went their own ways), but a group setting allows for the creativity to be more dynamic. Even in the cases of the individualist musicians I’ve written about – Bob Dylan and Neil Young – it kinda played out this way. Dylan is an extremely unique case, but his period with the Band in the late 60s allowed him to break free from the shackles of being Dylan. In the process he released collaborative music from that period that to this day stands out in a distinctively palpable way. As for Neil Young, his discography highlights the every-so-often need for collaborative solace with his band Crazy Horse (and less frequently with CSN), and he continues to value the period of time he spent in Buffalo Springfield in the late 60s (a true group effort). Young knows the value of collaboration. You can hear it in that Crazy Horse sound.

There are many collaboratives in our lives. A marriage is an example. So too is a family. Friendships and work teams are other examples. Are these the only kinds of experiences in our lives where we can optimize on dynamic potential? Is there much space for dynamism when we are doing something on our own (for example, in my case when I write entries for this blog)? Again, it’s not an easy proposition to contemplate. Perhaps what it comes down to is that the two environments (group and individual) complement one another.

We will always have ourselves to rely on (or at least we have that in our control) but when it comes to a collective experience - which in essence is built on our individual efforts - we must rely on an “all in” group mentality. There’s more risk involved. You need a solemn vow so to speak (either spoken or unspoken) to make it really work. The more people involved, the harder that is to pull off or maintain in the long run, especially when it comes to creativity. But when you do manage to pull it off, magic happens. The Beatles figured this out.

In Yellow Submarine’s Pepperland, harmony comes with that collective, creative spirit. It’s interesting that the best of the 4 original Beatles songs to come out of the film’s soundtrack was the aptly titled (on all accounts) “All Together Now” ( https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SM8S4Y7FPMk&list=RDSM8S4Y7FPMk&start_radio=1 ). Was this intentional(in terms of the song and it's title fitting so well the general narrative of the film)?  In the masterfully creative world of the collective Beatles, I believe so.  It may not have been spoken, but the spirit of the solemn vow made it so. As the case with the song “Yellow Submarine”, it works too that “All Together Now” is for the most part a children’s song. It all fits. Much of our creativity evolves out of our connection with our youthful innocence. The Beatles are a band that formed in youth. The movie Yellow Submarine is at heart a children’s movie. And the title song, along with the best original song (“All Together Now”) tie in with all this (arguably these two songs are the only two children’s songs that the Beatles ever wrote). 

As mentioned at the beginning of this entry, the ending of Yellow Submarine with the actual Beatles is my favorite part of the movie (a portion of that clip is in the above link). Afterall, this was late 1968, when the band was going through internal strife. And yet the clip is a playful one. All four Beatles come across as much more youthful versions of themselves than what you see in other clips of them from that period. I replayed it over and over this week. I love George’s little moments, especially the way he says “how’s that” just before they launch into song. I love Ringo’s little moments, especially when he leads off the singing with that immediate and natural “One!”. I love Paul’s little moments, especially when he says, “what’s the matter, John love, Blue Meanies?” . And I love John’s little moments especially when he pronounces that the only way to get things right is by “Singing!”. There’s not a hint of jadedness with any of them. It’s all very Beatle-esque.

In my imagination this week, I thought of myself watching Yellow Submarine as a kid with my siblings and my cousins. We were a bundle of energy back then, likely bouncing off the walls before, during, and after we watched. The reason? A very likely one is that there was so much potential for our future, which eventually played out in fantastical ways for each of us. And so, we were excited! The Beatles showcased this potential in their animated selves. They helped unlock all that.

- Pete

Fab Foundations # 31: “Here’s a Twist: Plastic Props”

(Personal reflections inspired by Beatles songs)

Song: “Working Class Hero”

Album: John Lennon/Plastic Ono Band

Release Date: December 1970

In 1987 Rolling Stone magazine celebrated its 20^th anniversary with 4 special issues. The boldest and finest of these was the first: “The 100 Best Albums of the Last 20 Years”. From what I’ve researched, it was one of the first times any music-centric publication had ever attempted such a thing and would set a precedent for record retrospectives (and other retrospectives for that matter) that continues to this day.

Throughout the 80s, I read Rolling Stone religiously, from cover to cover (a crate or two of issues from that period still resides in my basement). Needless to say, I sucked this special issue up. It had a huge influence on me, affirming many of my own declarations regarding superb albums (the only thing I was miffed by was that Quadrophenia was not included in the canon). Better still, it introduced me to some great music from musicians I knew little to nothing about (including Richard & Linda Thompson, Graham Parker, and the Modern Lovers) as well as a handful of musicians/bands whom I’d already connected with to some degree, but still had a steep learning curve to round out my understanding of their significant contributions to the music world (for example, several of Randy Newman’s discs that had previously slipped my attention). Each album had a nice writeup explaining the reasoning behind its inclusion and its hierarchical position. It was all very classily done.

I recall now my being quite methodical in how I approached that magazine the day it arrived in my mailbox. There would be no rapid-fire page turning to see what made this special list and what did not. Instead, I treated each page as if it were made of gold leaf, examining every detail and then turning ever-so carefully. I liked how Rolling Stone approached the list by starting at #1 and working down to #100, instead of the other way around. Usually it’s better to “build up” to # 1, but here it worked the opposite because this was a very exclusive list, and so, starting at #1, you would get the overall gist of the concept right out of the gate. It was a concept that would not lose its luster all the way through to #100 (T. Rex’s Electric Warrior).

#1 you ask? None other than the Beatles Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. No surprise there, particularly if you’d been sucking in rock music back in the 70s and 80s as much as I had, which included faithfully tuning into “underground” rock radio stations such as WBCN on a regular basis. The writeup made a very good case though, and I generally agreed with the choice. However, if things continued along this “classic rock” trajectory, I would have been disappointed.

It did not.

Coming in at #2 was the Sex Pistols Never Mind the Bullocks. Wow! Ok, now this was suddenly getting very interesting. I began to understand that the formula being used by Rolling Stone was not so much about a popularity contest, nor was it strictly about staying power. Factoring into the formula were alternative albums that had the greatest effect on the music world at the time of their release. The writeup on Johnny Rotten and his fellow punks was spot on.

The Rolling Stones Exile on Main Street came in at #3. I was already a big Stones fan in those years but had not yet sunk my teeth into this incredible album, and so I was very curious. The insightful commentary fueled that curiosity. By the time I wrote my Stepping Stones blog series in 2012, I would fully understand why this all-time-best Stones album had been given such a lofty position (entry #17 of my Stepping Stones series explains how I became enlightened). Yes, an excellent choice.

Having tackled the top 3, I turned to the next page to see what #4 was, which ended up being the most pleasant surprise in that entire afternoon of page turning: John Lennon / Plastic Ono Band; Lennon’s first solo album after the Beatles break up. At that stage, I remember thinking that Rolling Stone must have put a lot of thought, effort, and coordination into this list. Plastic Ono Band would top the Beatles “White Album” (# 9), Marvin Gaye’s What’s Going On (# 10), Bob Dylan’s Blood on the Tracks (# 12), and the Who’s Who’s Next (# 22). It would come ahead of many other fantastic choices too, as well as many that did not make the cut. During the months prior, in anticipation for the arrival of this special-issue retrospective, I wanted the list to include gems that the radio had not quite figured out yet. Clearly this was what was playing out.

Why did Plastic Ono Band get so highly ranked? I’m not going to try to resurrect that special Rolling Stone issue at this time to help me answer that question (although I know where it is). Instead I’m going to rely on the insights that I arrived at this week as I listened, which of course includes flashbacks from having played this album frequently in those bygone years (after all, flashing back is what this overarching Music and Memory blog site is all about).

Plastic Ono Band is one of the starkest albums I have ever heard, which goes a long way to help explaining Rolling Stone’s recognition of it. It lays out bare-naked John Lennon’s painfilled emotions at the time (the word “pain” is used in 5 of 11 songs on the album and could easily have been used in several others). Those troublesome emotions hit on a range of topics, particularly in relation to Lennon’s being robbed of a childhood through death (his Mom) and abandonment (both his parents). It’s a therapy album (“primal scream therapy” to be precise), and we all get to hear the patient bare his soul.

The album starts off with 4 tolls of a funeral bell, before John Lennon launches into the gut-wrenching (yet, magnificent) song, “Mother”, whereby he proceeds to say goodbye to her. In other words, “I’m done”. The album rarely lets up from there. “Isolation” could just as easily have been titled “Ostracization” …as in…’Yeah, well that’s what you get for going out on a limb with these hippie-like dreams of peace and harmony, and in the process abandoning your Fab persona’ (generic establishment voices speaking there). The song “Well Well Well” is the most difficult on the album to listen to emotionally, Lennon crying out in childlike agony as he grapples with a world closing in on him.  One song after another takes on these themes of isolation, abandonment, and pain (the only real bright spot is the song “Love” which has the feel of therapeutic success).

The most melodic song on the album, “God”, is also the most jaded; John Lennon disassociating himself from just about everything, including Christianity, I-Ching, Buddha, Elvis, Zimmerman (Bob Dylan), the Queen of England, you name it. In the end, the only thing left is “Yoko and me”. The lashing out in the song culminates with “I don’t believe in Beatles!”. I knew when I first heard those lyrics that the subsequent line in the song, “the dream is over” (of a Beatles reunion ever happening), was a reality. The affirmation was so clear. For John Lennon it was all part of the therapeutic process, but for many Beatles fans it was a very cold shower indeed (which must have also been the case for Paul McCartney when he first heard it).

John Lennon clearly felt isolated at that time, but what he may not have realized was that a new generation of 70s kids (like me) were hearing him out, impressed by his courage and conviction in the face of intense adversity. I may not have been fully on board (particularly in relation to his lashing out at established Christianity), but I was there, man. I mean, if there was ever someone in a position to do so, here was a guy who could rest on his laurels. He’d conquered the world in the previous decade for goodness sakes! But he stuck with his artistic self – his true self – in order to stay on his personal path of wisdom. Who knows how it would have played out for John Lennon had he lived beyond the age of 40? The dust was already settling down for him by 1980 (when he was murdered).  I’d like to think that by facing his fears and traumas head on with Plastic Ono Band and other projects (including his second solo album, Imagine), that he would eventually come around to believing again in some of the good things he was then condemning.

It’s funny, but when I listened as a kid, songs like “God”, “Mother”, and “Isolation” were more about the quality of the music than they were about the pain of lyrics (although both factored into why I was so enthused to see that #4 recognition in Rolling Stone all those years ago). I’m willing to hear others out on this next point, but when it comes to an album like Plastic Ono Band, my thinking is that when you are in your formative years, your ears are more attuned to quality (the music) than the thoughts being conveyed through the lyrics, particularly if you have been blessed to have retained your youthful innocence up to that given point. Conversely, when I listen now to Plastic Ono Band, I connect more with the pain of the lyrics than I do with the quality of the music (although my life has been relatively wonderful) and so the songs tend to sound a bit more jarring.

The penultimate song on Plastic Ono Band is “Working Class Hero”, which fits right in with the general theme of the album, and maybe even defines it. The song (about the trappings of falling in line to the whims of the powers that be) is loaded with classic lines, but the one that draws me in the most is “They hate you if you’re clever and they despise a fool”.  I’d like to think that on the occasion when I’ve been put in that position - when my uniqueness has been challenged – that more often than not I’ve dealt with it appropriately.

The one line I’ve always struggled with in “Working Class Hero” is the one John Lennon uses to close the song: “If you want to be a hero, well just follow me”.  After all, isn’t that the type of thing that Lennon advises against in “God”? The lyrical line had a touch of hypocrisy about it. Well (well well), whaddaya know, this week I stumbled across the official video for “Working Class Hero”, which was not released until 2016. Check it out if you can because it’s a work of art ( https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iMewtlmkV6c ). Along with several other ‘modernized’ Beatles-related videos (including one for “Here Comes the Sun” and another for “What is Life”), this one is incredibly well-constructed.

Anyhow, if you watch, note the “Strawberry Fields” visuals at the beginning and ending (John Lennon’s escape from reality locale when he was growing up in Liverpool). These visuals align with the lyrics, particularly the ending with those aforementioned closing lines I was struggling with. The point is clear: Run with your childhood imagination. It will take you to glorious places that an overly-structured world could never hope to accomplish. Nicely done! In one fell swoop, my jadedness to those lines disappeared.

That same imagination was there for me on that thought-provoking day in the summer of 1987 when I slipped that special-issue of Rolling Stone magazine out of my mailbox. I was hoping my imagination would be satiated with imagination and insight in those pages. Rolling Stone did not disappoint. In turn, John Lennon did not disappoint them.

- Pete