I've Got a Feeling

It’s a strange thing to admit, but literature rarely moves me to tears. For me, reading is, and I think always has been, a pleasure of the head: imaginative or intellectual stimulation rather than emotional. (This is perhaps why I have ended up an academic in an English literature department who writes and teaches on science fiction.) That’s not to say that I don’t react emotionally to culture, but I am most moved by other things; namely, movies and music. I regularly cry in the cinema, at the most emotionally manipulative things, in spite of myself; rarely does a children’s animated film go by without me piping my eye, and I’m not even talking about the genius at work in the opening sequence of Up. In the cinema, I’m a softy.

Certain songs almost always trigger tears. ‘Spare Parts’ and ‘Cautious Man’ from Springsteen’s Tunnel of Love, for instance (the hair stands up at the back of my neck too). And recently, although I don’t cry, some of the late work of The Beatles works emotionally in a powerful way for me. In particular, it’s the songs of Paul McCartney that do this.

In a sense, it’s one of those wild goose chases that occasionally engulf me that has been at work, in part precipitated by Ian Macdonald’s brilliant Revolution in the Head, which I have read compulsively, over and over again, since Christmas. I’ve always been a Revolver man; I remember buying the album at the Woolworth’s in Southend in the company of my good friend Simon when I was about 16 or 17. The first album I ever owned (a present) was A Collection of Beatles Oldies…But Goldies, which still has my childish scrawl upon the back cover declaring me its (new) owner. (Curiously, listening to tracks from that album always brings to mind images from Ryan’s Daughter, which must have been playing on the tv once while I sat listening to the album on headphones in the sitting room.) But Revolution in the Head sent me to those later albums I’d never had much contact with; the White Album, Abbey Road, and Let It Be (which I bought in the …Naked version), along with Sgt Pepper, which I’d borrowed from the local library as a teenager and liked, but couldn’t remember in detail.

I’m still getting my head around the White album. It’s sprawling, of course, if not incoherent; from Macdonald’s book, it seems as though that was the point at which the group worked most separately, and you can tell. What really strikes me, though, is the incredible range of styles, a lot of which is flat out pastiche (‘Back in the USSR’, ‘Rocky Racoon’), and some is a clear attempt to turn to a late-60s heavy electric blues-rock ('YerBlues’). Lennon is particularly keen on this latter style; McCartney the former. But then there’s ‘Helter Skelter’. How do you place this next to ‘Ob-la-di, Ob-la-da’, which apparently drove McCartney’s band-mates mad when he drilled them over and over to the perfect the song?

I have to admit that Lennon, after Sgt Pepper, wearies me a bit. For all his sarcasm, I see him as a sentimentalist of the ego in his Yoko-buttressed insistence that all art must be personal (and thereby dismissing McCartney songs like ‘Eleanor Rigby’ as ‘boring songs about boring people’). Lennon is both cynic and idealist (two sides of the same coin), but while keenly attuned to the bullshit of others, found it difficult to diagnose his own. Macdonald has it right when he says that Lennon was particularly dismissive of intellectuals because their pretensions mirrored his. It’s a bit of a glib binary, but where Lennon is a cynical idealist, I see McCartney as a Romantic. I don’t just mean a spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings, which I think is central to his songs, but also in a powerful emotional (rather than political) sympathy with the lives of other people. It’s McCartney, after all, who writes ‘Eleanor Rigby’ and ‘She’s Leaving Home’.

Although you only have to do a bit of reading to know that it was McCartney, not Lennon, who was involved in the London avant-garde scene in the mid- to late-60s (Lennon was tripping in uneasy domesticity with wife Cynthia in Weybridge); and it was McCartney who was really enthusiastic about musique concrete and tape loops and William Burroughs and so on; but McCartney, for all his intellectual curiosity, isn’t an artist of the head, which is why he was so enthusiastic about marijuana. For McCartney, it’s all about feel. (It’s no surprise that McCartney hightailed it off to Scotland to live on a farm, for all one might be suspicious of Macca as l’homme naturel.) It seems to me that McCartney’s work is fundamentally unthought, though his genius is not that of Shafer’s Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, taking ‘dictation’ from God. The direction of McCartney’s work is always towards feeling.

By unthought, I mean that it doesn’t involve agonising, about meaning or shape or genre; though he liked the product of tape loops and cut-ups, his aesthetic is all about flow. Lennon, by contrast, was well known for his practice of writing bits of songs and sticking them together. That’s how you get the effect of ‘I Want You (She’s So Heavy)’, which is literally two different parts put together in rotation, or ‘Happiness is a Warm Gun’, a mini-suite of elements composed of different time signatures, different forms and styles. (Curiously enough, Abbey Road’s Long Melody, an idea usually credited to McCartney, is a macrocosmic analogue of Lennon’s method.) I suspect that for most of McCartney’s songs, the melody just appears in his head. This is certainly true of ‘Hey Jude’, which McCartney ‘wrote’ while driving to see Lennon in Weybridge.

This is why matters of taste, and in particular failures of taste, the accusation always levelled at McCartney, are besides the point when looking at his work. I suspect that McCartney just thinks his songs up and does them, whether it’s ‘Helter Skelter’ or ‘Ob-la-di’ or ‘The Frog Chorus’ (or ‘Mull of Kintyre’ and the skirl of bagpipes). It is simply a matter of what he thinks the song should sound like, be it cod-ska (‘Ob-la-di’), Chuck Berry/ The Beach Boys (‘Back in the USSR’) or 50s doo-wop (‘Oh! Darling’). McCartney was steeped in show-tunes as well as r&b and rock’n’roll, and you can tell: his work fuses Tin Pan Alley, pop and rock, but these threads can be more dominant than others in certain songs. ‘Got to Get You Into My Life’ is brilliant, blaring r&b; ‘When I’m 64’ like a show-tune standard; ‘Paperback Writer’ is classic ’66 freakbeat, fuzz guitar and all.

For all Lennon’s declamatory rhetoric about love, I don’t find much in his songs. There’s yearning and loss in ‘Julia’ and a kind of spindly otherworldliness in ‘Across the Universe’; there’s desire, even obsession in ‘I Want You’; there’s cynicism and anger (and misogyny) everywhere. But it’s in McCartney’s songs that I find depth of emotion, and in particular some songs which, I feel, are about Lennon, and the break-up of the band, which work in terms of their melodies and words to manifest a powerful sense of regret, and pain, and love (in part, for his ‘mate’).

In ‘Two of Us’, from Let It Be, McCartney sings to a friend, celebrating their time together, but it’s filled with wistfulness (accentuated by the arrangement, with strummed 12-string guitars and a simple beat); it’s sometimes thought to be a song to Linda, but the lines ‘You and I have memories/ Longer than the road that stretches out ahead’ suggest a much longer-standing relationship. The song is filled with images of travel – ‘Sunday driving’, ‘the road’ – but the sense is that the friends are ‘getting nowhere’, making no progress, ‘chasing paper’. (This is a line that has produced some comment to do with McCartney’s legal dispute with Apple and the rest of the Beatles. ‘Paper’ could also mean money, as in Lennon’s line in ‘Mean Mr Mustard’: ‘shaves in the dark trying to save paper’, which would connect very interestingly with ‘You Never Give Me YourMoney’, of more anon. ‘Chasing paper’ would then mean chasing money, losing sight of friendship through the pursuit of the material and worldly.) The chorus declares ‘We’re on our way home’, but it’s a home they can no longer find. There’s a longing for this sense of arrival, to restore what has been lost, but it’s lost for good.

The same images recur in ‘The Long and Winding Road’, which Ian Macdonald reads as McCartney’s farewell not only to the Beatles, but to the dreams of the 60s in their entirety. Here, the road leads ‘to your door’, but the door isn’t opened. ‘Don’t leave me standing here’, McCartney sings; ‘you’ll never now the many ways I’ve tried’. The stories of George and Ringo’s anger with McCartney’s seemingly patronising attitude towards them are legion, and Lennon’s exasperation with his writing partner is evident; but ‘The Long and Winding Road’ seems like a mea culpa (‘I’ve tried’) and also a plea: please open the door.

The third of the songs in this thread is from the Long Melody of Abbey Road, in my mind a masterpiece of sequencing; but also, in the last three songs, excluding ‘Her Majesty’ (all McCartney), there is a moving leave-taking. In ‘Golden Slumbers’, McCartney begins: ‘Once there was a way to get back homewards/ Once there was a way to get back home’, echoing ‘Two of Us’; homecoming, returning to the excitement and happiness of the early 60s, isn’t possible. The road has been too long, the alienation too profound. Then McCartney ‘sings a lullaby’: ‘Golden Slumbers fill your eyes’. I can’t help but read this against two Lennon songs, ‘I’m Only Sleeping’ (from Revolver) and ‘I’m So Tired’ (from the White album). It’s a call for peace, for calm, even for release from the striving of life: to let it go, to let be.

Golden Slumbers’ segues into ‘Carry that Weight’, a song I find myself humming all the time. Again, I think Macdonald’s right: McCartney might well have sung ‘boys, you’ve got to carry that weight’, about all of them, and what they would have to put up with as (former) Beatles. In a brilliant touch, ‘Carry That Weight’ turns to a reprise of ‘You Never Give Me Your Money’, where McCartney sings ‘I break down’, almost a confession and a self-indictment. There’s no finger-pointing here, just a sense that things are at an end. And then they do end, with the coruscating soloing of ‘The End’, and the lines ‘And in the end, the love you take/ Is equal to the love you make’, which is hippyish stuff but also, again, a kind of plea: please let there be an end to bitterness, to rancour. Let love and peace reign, in hearts as well as heads.

You Never Give Me your Money’ is an astonishing song in itself. Like ‘Happiness is a Warm Gun’, it’s a mini-suite, built of extraordinary parts: the opening piano chords, Harrison’s guitar, McCartney’s expressive singing; the bouncing bar-room ensemble section (‘out of college, money spent’); the arpeggiated breakdown (‘oh that magic feeling, nowhere to go’) which becomes a lovely chiming Harrison break; then a return to a rock dynamic (‘soon we’ll be away from here, step on the gas’); and then a final arpeggiated guitar riff and fade (‘all good children go to heaven’). It’s virtuoso stuff all round, from the shifts in dynamic, tone and melody, to the fabulous playing and production, to the sequencing of the different sections of the song. ‘Money’ here is a metaphor, no matter what McCartney says about the song being about Allen Klein; it’s about not giving of your best, your truest and deepest emotion, to a friend or lover. (In terms of the Beatles as song-writers, by the time of Abbey Road it’s most likely that both Lennon and Harrison were keeping back their best songs for pending solo efforts, though the last Beatles album has two of Harrison’s best-loved songs.) The singer isn’t spared; both are passing ‘funny paper’, counterfeit coin.

All the songs I’ve mentioned move me. They don’t bring me to tears, but they do produce a kind of wistfulness, a deep sympathy, a feeling. These are songs of pain and loss and sadness, but also of a coming to terms. They’re brave, in a way, in exposing the rawness of emotion of that period, not just in what is being sung, but in how the music is able to transmit that feeling.

Abbey Road is a brilliant album (despite ‘Maxwell’s Silver Hammer’, a sure-fire example of McCartney’s facility with music leading to produce something that is pretty tasteless.) I return to the ‘Long Melody’ obsessively, and love the Lennon songs too (especially ‘Polythene Pam’, which has a humour and energy many Lennon songs of the period lack, to my ears). But the most resonant album of the period is Let It Be …Naked, strangely, in all its bodged glory. To me, it sounds like the most Stones-like of all the Beatles albums, not least because of the presence of Billy Preston on keys. It’s not just that; the music is rootsy, vibey. In a sense, this isn’t surprising, because the ‘Get Back’ sessions (which were turned into Let It Be) approximated the Stones’ way of working: endless rehearsing, on and on and on until they selected a take through some means or other (boredom or exhaustion or ‘feel’).

I love the Stones’ music, more perhaps than the Beatles’. Jagger/Richards, Lennon/McCartney. Sometimes I try to think about who matches up with who, and on first take, you’d say Lennon and Richards, the hell-raising bad boys, against Jagger and McCartney, lighter-weight, more showbiz-aware operators. But actually I think it’s the other way round. Jagger and Lennon are the faux-intellectuals, the seekers. McCartney and Richards are all about flow, and about the music itself. I take Keith’s use of heroin as to do with work rather than decadence: he could go on for 30 hours before crashing. When you watch Sympathy for the Devil/ One Plus One, Godard’s film, you can see Keith keeping the band going when Charlie fluffs a drum part, waving his arm to say ‘keep on’; it’s key to the Stones’ working methods. And this was McCartney’s method to keep the Beatles together, to keep working, to do the ‘Magical Mystery Tour’, to try the back-to-basics no-overdubs ‘Get Back’ sessions, to push and push and push. Without him, in the stead of Brian Epstein (who became peripheral once they stopped touring in ’66), the band might well have split after Sgt Pepper; in the end, his solution, to keep the boys working, ended up compounding the tension and assuring the split.

This is typical McCartney; he doesn’t step back and think about it, he pushes on with what feels right, even though it ends up backfiring. And I admire this, in the end. He pushes on. He keeps working. He thinks of what he does as entertainment, as pop, not art. He writes ‘Mull of Kintyre’ and ‘The Frog Chorus’ (but also, recently, the Fireman albums, experimental looping psyche-electronica). He sells millions of records with Wings. In the end, McCartney’s endless facility and imaginative fertility is his downfall, his worst enemy, because he just gets on and does it. But that’s all right. And he does it because it’s important; and he cared, even though sometimes he cared too much.

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