Fab Foundations # 38: “Say Cheese”

(Personal reflections inspired by Beatles songs)

Song: “Photograph”
Album: Ringo
Release Date: November 1973

In queuing up Ringo Starr’s 1973 self-titled album Ringo for the first time this past Sunday, I continued on my "Solo September" listening sojourn, tackling unheard-until-now solo albums from each of the four ex-Beatles (last week I launched this sub-series with John Lennon’s Walls and Bridges album). I was very much looking forward to this one and Ringo did not disappoint, seeing as the album is chock-full of solid up-tempo music that had me tapping my feet all week. Indeed, upon the release of Ringo, three years after the Beatles disbanded, Starr proved he could produce a hit-laden album with the best of em’, including his typically far-more-prolific ex-bandmates.

I’ll get to the music on Ringo soon enough. The first thing that grabbed my attention though - in relation to this album - was when I read the liner notes on the sleeve and saw just how many great musicians contributed their talents to it. Which musicians you ask? How about John Lennon, Paul McCartney, George Harrison, Marc Bolan, Robbie Robertson, Levon Helm, Garth Hudson, Rick Danko, Steve Cropper, Billy Preston, Randy Newman, Nicky Hopkins, Klaus Voormann, Jim Keltner, Bobby Keys, David Bromberg, Harry Nilsson, Martha Reeves, Merry Clayton, and Linda McCartney. Can any other album top that list for rock-star quality and quantity? None that I can think of.

As discussed before in these pages, Ringo Starr has always been a magnet for the stars (hence his adopted surname?), proving this ability time and time again, particularly on all his “All-Starr-Band” tours. In this way, Ringo may have been at the height of his powers in 1973. Case in point, Ringo is the only post-Beatle album on which all 4 ex-bandmates would perform on (although never the 4 together on one song). And they all brought their “A” game. Here we hear Ringo Starr bringing out the hilarity in John Lennon (“I’m the Greatest”) the “Big Hit” in George Harrison (“Photograph”) and the confessional in Paul McCartney (“Six O’Clock”). It’s as if Starr shuffled the deck and assigned everyone a fresh personality. Perhaps that’s part of the attraction everyone had for the man; he pulled them out of their own skin.

The only musician who plays on every song on Ringo other than Starr himself is Klaus Voormann on bass (give a listen to Voormann’s ‘vrooming’ bass on “Oh My My” – did he get lessons from Bill Wyman of “Paint it Black” vrooming fame?). This had me doing some research, seeing as I’d just last week listened to Voormann’s sweet bass playing on John Lennon’s Walls and Bridges. I also recalled that he had played bass on Lennon’s Plastic Ono Band and George Harrison’s All Things Must Pass. It turns out Voormann played bass on virtually all of Lennon’s solo albums, a good many of George Harrison’s (primarily his 70s output) and several more of Starr’s (and seeing as Paul McCartney already had the bass part covered, its no wonder that collaboration did not happen). He was also the bassist for Manfred Mann in the late 60s.

I find this interesting and unique; Voormann as a key connect-the-dots persona in the Beatles lives. He was there for them musically, artistically, and personally. In tandem with his fellow German, Astrid Kirchherr (who passed away earlier this year), Voormann became close friends with the Beatles during their hard-rocking heady days in Hamburg, before the band made it big. Both Klaus and Astrid were artsy types. Kirchherr would go on to take some of the earliest masterful photos of the Beatles, whose membership at the time included both Stu Sutcliffe (who Astrid would fall in love with for a spell before Sutcliffe died of a brain hemorrhage at the tender young age of 21) and Pete Best (who would soon be replaced on the drum stool by Ringo). Voormann would eventually move to London, live with George Harrison and Ringo Starr for a spell, and end up designing one of the Beatles most famous album covers, Revolver. During those years (1963-66), he would also learn how to play the bass.

I’d like to think I connect with many a musician, but there are only a handful where I end up wanting to learn a lot more about than just their music (pretty much the ones I’ve written about in these blog pages these past 10 years). Here is where I find myself diving into the stories of the “extras” in their lives. After all, no great success story is possible without the support staff. The Who had a particularly eclectic cross-section of personalities in their circles, all of whom appear to have had a genuine love for the band. There’s Irish Jack, Bobby Pridden, Peter “Dougal” Butler, Chris Charlesworth, John “Wiggy” Wolff, Glyn Johns, Leo Sayer, Simon Townshend, Ted Astley, Kit Lambert, Chris Stamp, Rabbit Bundrick, Jeff Stein, Rachel Fuller, and Zak Starkey to name a few. Look them up. They played many disparate rolls, yet the one thing they have/had in common is that their stories are very Who centric.

In the case of the Beatles, along with Klaus Voormann, Astrid Kirchherr and Stu Sutcliffe, there’s Brian Epstein, George Martin, Yoko Ono, Linda McCartney, Pattie Boyd, Mal Evans, Neil Aspinall, Mick Jagger, Eric Clapton, Billy Preston, Derek Taylor, Ravi Shankar, Jane Asher, Peter Shotton, Peter Brown, Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, Elliot Mintz, Joe Brown, Barbara Bach, Olivia Harrison, and Tony Bramwell, to name a few. The Beatles were loyal to those who helped them before they were famous, and that loyalty was reciprocated, particularly in the cases of Evans, Aspinall, Epstein, Voorman, Kirchherr, Shotton and even Martin.

Why has this Ringo blog entry veered off on a side trail to my now writing about “support staff”? I pondered this too, and then it struck me, and I can summarize that light bulb moment in one word; “Photograph”. This song was Ringo Starr’s greatest hit, and one of the catchiest tunes of all time. Yes, all it took for me was to type the song title in the 3rd paragraph above and the next thing you know, I’m off the beaten path (listening to “Photograph” frequently this week may have had something to do with it too). Or am I? Afterall, these thoughts all tie together …. Ringo’s friend-filled, star-studded life. Photographs of memories. The Beatles. The people in our circles. The Ringo album cover (very Sgt. Pepper-esque).

Who are the people in your bubble (circle, sphere) that made it happen for you? Who are your “support staff”? I know who they are for me. They are those who have had a positive connection with me beyond the superficial level, many of whom read this blog. I thought of all of you as I listened to “Photograph” this week, as well as those who “won’t be coming back any more”, including close friends Ed Suen and Bob Bouvier, as well as my Aunt Ginger and so many others; aunts, uncles, grandparents, in-laws, cousins, colleagues, and friends. You are the people that have made it happen for me. You are the “bread winners” in my life.

“Photograph” was co-written by George Harrison. It’s the only song that has ever been officially credited to “Starkey and Harrison”. Ringo sang this song at The Concert for George, a very special event that memorialized Starr’s Fab-Four bandmate not long after he had passed. Parts of Starr’s performance are captured in this video ( https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IhDKHo2wapM ) which also features photographic memories of many others in Ringo’s circles, including of course John Lennon and Paul McCartney.

Ringo (the album) is solid through and through. The Band (of Bob Dylan fame) plays on the pastoral-sounding “Sunshine Life for Me” (oh, to be a fly on the wall to witness that ‘Big Pink’ crew jamming on this tune with Ringo and George Harrison - who wrote the song). “I’m the Greatest”, “Photograph” and “Six O’Clock” each include wonderfully-familiar backing vocals from Ringo’s ex’s (John, George, and Paul respectively) “You’re Sixteen” brings me way back. “Oh My My” may be the most touching song on the entire album, which appears to be about Ringo’s adolescent years in a hospital bed (with a variety of ailments), rising above the pain and sadness with the occasional late-night boogie and a little bit of slide. “You and Me (Babe)” signs off the album in classic uber-confident Ringo fashion (similar to how he opens it up with “I’m the Greatest”).

By week’s end, it all came back to “Photograph” for a handful of extra plays. And with it the memories, which had me pulling out photo albums of days gone by. Do me a favor this weekend and poke through your old photos. Relive some of your great memories and with them, your support staff. You may find yourself rekindling something that’s been squirreled away for far too long. Something just dying to come back to the fore.

I include a few of mine here for some inspiration. Be sure to play “Photograph” as you view.

- Pete

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