In Praise of Ringo

Okay. So everyone knows that Ringo Starr is the most underrated drummer ever.

All hail Caestarr!

Actually, not everyone knows that. But they should. In reality, Ringo is, bizarrely, the butt of many jokes. Folks will refer to the Beatles as Two Geniuses, a Really Talented Role Player…and the Luckiest Man in History.

Which is absurd. For one thing, the Beatles might never have made it in the United States in the first place if it weren’t for Ringo; the funny-lookin’ dude with the big nose and the goofy name got a seriously disproportionate amount of the press in the early days—far more than the conventionally handsome singers. He was an easy hook for the press to go with. And keep in mind that American success was far from a given—no other British rock act had ever really made it big here before.

Then there’s the chemistry factor. When you’ve got just four guys, if any one of them isn’t quite clicking for whatever reason, even if it’s just that his sense of humor is off, it can destroy a band, or at the very least keep it from reaching its full potential. Which isn’t to say that a band has to be best friends, of course—Pete Townshend and Roger Daltrey famously feuded for years, even coming to blows onstage. In fact, nobody in the Who really liked anyone else in the Who. Which is fine. That worked for them, that was their successful chemistry. Love may be all the Beatles needed, but clearly hatred worked better for the Who. And the Who’s not the only band with those kinds of anger management issues, not by a long shot. Different strokes and all that.

So Ringo’s non-musical contributions shouldn’t be overlooked. The interaction of those four personalities was a major key to the band’s success. But let’s focus on Ringo’s actual musicality.

I recall reading a Modern Drummer interview with him when I was about 13, where the pull quote was something like, “It took me years to accept the fact that I was the greatest rock drummer in the world.” And I remember thinking how absurd that was, and believing that, for pete’s sake, I was a better drummer than Ringo.

"We're gonna play soon, right, lads...?"

Which was half-right. I probably was able to play faster and more cleanly and more complicated time signatures. But to think for a moment that all that meant I was a better drummer is a sign, as if any were needed, of just how young and stupid I was. (Some things never change. Well, I’m no longer young.)

It’s my impression that most people think Ringo’s a great drummer, because he was the drummer in the Beatles, and therefore he must be a great drummer. Which seems like flawed logic, although it’s actually rock solid (so to speak).

Then there are the people who love music and are quite knowledgeable about it. This is the group of folks most likely to think Ringo sucks and to make disparaging comments about him. Another common comment from the semi-educated is “Ringo was the second-best drummer in the Beatles.” A little knowledge is a mighty dangerous thing. Paul McCartney is a brilliant musician and he’s recorded some really fine performances on drums over the years. But there’s a big difference between doing that and being a drummer. As master drummer Rick Marotta—who recorded with Paul—once said, Paul’s never played an entire gig as a drummer, and until that happens, he’s a musician who sometimes plays drums, not a drummer.

Phil Collins, now obviously first thought of as a pop singer, was one of the truly great rock drummers of the 70s, both with prog-rockers Genesis, and jazz fusion band Brand X, as well as for art rockers such as Brian Eno. He said, “Ringo is vastly underrated. The drum fills on the song "A Day in the Life" are very complex things. You could take a great drummer today and say, 'I want it like that.' He wouldn't know what to do.”

Master drummer Kenny Aronoff once said, “I consider him one of the greatest innovators of rock drumming and believe that he has been one of the greatest influences on rock drumming today... Ringo has influenced drummers more than they will ever realize or admit. Ringo laid down the fundamental rock beat that drummers are playing today and they probably don't even realize it.”

And then there's Dave Grohl, the greatest drummer of his generation, who said, “No one needs to defend Ringo Starr—he's fucking Ringo Starr. He was in the Beatles. Without him the Beatles wouldn't have sounded like the Beatles. And if the Beatles didn't sound like the Beatles, there would be no Beatles.”

"I can't hear a damn thing anyone's singing!"

Which brings us to the one group of people who virtually always give Ringo his props: drummers. Because drummers know just how damn hard it is to get exactly the right feel for any given song. They know how easy it is to play one of the same old patterns for a song, patterns which always work just fine, and how tough it can be to come up with something new, that’s not just new but also just right. They know how hard it is to practice restraint and not overplay.

And all that stuff is stuff at which Ringo excelled.

An example: the odd pattern he plays at the very beginning (and many other places in the song) of “Come Together.” There’s nothing particularly difficult about it. And yet nothing like it was ever put on record before. It’s interesting and strange and tasteful and fits beautifully—a rare and magical combination.

Another example: the odd and restrained pattern he plays on “In My Life,” where he doesn’t play quarter-notes or eighth-notes on the hi-hat, as would every other drummer in the world. Instead he merely plays whole notes, hitting the hi-hat once per measure, just before the 4. So unusual, so tasteful, so perfect. Not difficult, just rare beyond words, and yet absolutely ideal for the song.

“Rain,” “Tomorrow Never Knows,” “I Want to Hold Your Hand,” “Ticket to Ride,” “She Said She Said,” “Get Back,” “Two of Us”—these songs have nothing in common save exceptional Ringo performances, imaginatively conceived and absolutely flawlessly executed.

There are dozens, nay, scores of other examples, but just listen to one of the most-neglected masterpieces in the Fab Four’s canon, “Long Tall Sally.”

Ringo rocks so hard and so tight, it’s the drumming equivalent of a diamond’s atomic structure. Getting that half-straight/half-swing feel is an almost-forgotten art, and even back then it was incredibly hard to nail as immaculately as he did during this two minutes and three seconds (two minutes and three seconds!) of perfection. Possibly Paul McCartney’s greatest rock performance as a vocalist—if it weren’t for “Twist and Shout,” it might just be the greatest vocal performance on any Beatles recording—it’s not difficult to believe that Macca was spurred to such stratospheric heights by Ringo’s asskicking. This is one of those songs that is undeniable proof of their greatness—to cover a great song done extremely well by Elvis and brilliantly by Little Richard and somehow manage to top them both is practically inconceivable. And yet there ‘tis. An unsurpassed performance by the greatest cover band in history. The fact that the cover band was also the greatest collection of writers in rock history is merely proof that the Flying Spaghetti Monsters exists and that He loves us. Oh, and did I mention that was the first take? And that they didn't even bother with a second because how do you improve upon perfection?

I said up above that there was one group of people, drummers, who always gave Ringo his due. Actually, there was one other group. It was called the Beatles.

world's greatest garage band...even on a roof

It’s no coincidence that after the break-up John, Paul and George all continued to work with Ringo on a regular basis. Even after all three of them had worked with other drummers, including magnificent drummers like Jim Keltner and Jim Gordon and the incomparable Steve Gadd—easily a contender for the shortest of short lists of Most Versatile and Just Plain Best Drummers Ever—they all kept going back to Ringo. These are guys who, it’s safe to say, knew something about creating great music, guys who knew how vital a drummer is to great music, guys who could not only afford but also had easy access to absolutely any drummer on the entire planet. And yet they kept going back to Ringo again and again and again. As George Harrsion said, "Ringo's got the best back beat I've ever heard and he can play great 24-hours a day."

Maybe, just maybe, those guys were onto something. The Beatles was one seriously exclusive club. They didn’t let just anyone in—in fact, obviously, they let almost no one in. But they not only let Ringo in, they booted a long-time member to make room.

Ringo got in the old-fashioned way: he earned it, by being one of the greatest rock and roll drummers ever.

Originally published at Left of the Dial.

In Appreciation of "Bobby Jean"

(The first of what likely will be many, many posts about the songs and stylings of Bruce Frederick Joseph Springsteen that we share here on RTB. This one is about one of my favorites of his, offbeat though it may be).

For nearly all of the 28 years that it has been in existence, from just about the first moment I heard it, “Bobby Jean” has always been one of my favorite Bruce Springsteen songs. I know this might be surprising, because it’s arguably not even among his Top 50 finest songs. But there ‘tis.

Why?

For starters, the music. The glorious meshing of Clarence Clemons saxophone and Roy Bittan’s piano in the opening, Max's metronomic power backing it all, the freshness and the energy and triumph as the full E Street Band plays behind Bruce.  Then there are the words, and the beautiful cocktail of pervasive wistfulness and lonesome melancholy that we hear in his voice as he sings, making it equal parts happy and sad all at once. These qualities make it – to me – one of the most beautiful songs he has ever written.

When I hear it, I hear a critical song in Bruce’s career. A bridge between eras, and one of the more important ones he ever wrote. And it’s a salve, of sorts, to help him through a remarkably transitional time in his life. Just as, among others, “Born to Run” and “Badlands” and “The Promise” and “One Step Up” and “Better Days” and “Long Walk Home” and “Wrecking Ball” came to transport him from one era to the next, so too did “Bobby Jean.”

Let’s examine when it was written, in 1984, for the epochal Born in the U.S.A. album.  And just after his longtime bandmate and close pal, Little Steven Van Zandt, told him he was leaving the E Street Band to pursue a solo career. That’s the impetus for “Bobby Jean” – a farewell to a buddy and confidante he had known and played with for so long.

It’s not only the first time the adult and increasingly successful Bruce had to deal with professional loss – Little Steven’s departure just had to hit him hard – and it’s not just a sweet but regretful love letter to one of his closest friends. It's also a realization that life as Bruce Springsteen had always known it was changing yet again. And changing fast, in ways he never could have imagined. From the epic Jersey shore days where he cut his teeth as a limitless performer, through two excellent but poor-selling albums, through the launching pad that was Born To Run, through the three years of legal strife that followed, and through more great records and all the increasing fame and fortune.

Because now, at another defining point and leap forward, Bruce would have to go it alone, without his trusty sidekick.  Hence “Bobby Jean” was written, as a way to deal with the loss.

(And pardon the quick digression, but has any interviewer ever asked Steve how he felt about the song? Does he love it? Is he embarrassed by it? How does it feel now to stand on stage and play behind Bruce as he sings it? I’d love to hear him say.)

The core intention of the song remains the same and likely always will. It’s a gender-flopped tribute to a great friend who has moved on. Tucked in the middle of a Born in the U.S.A. album that seethes rage, bleeds sadness, and speaks in a guttural tone to a world getting away from the people who love it, it is one of the two most personal songs on the record ("Dancing in the Dark" being the other). Even amidst that raw backdrop, though, “Bobby Jean” seems glowing and hagiographic and unflinchingly sentimental.

But a second look at it also shows it is Bruce not only bidding Bobby Jean nee Little Steven goodbye, but also a part of his life that maybe he wasn’t expecting to have to leave so soon. Lets look.

Well I came by your house the other day,

Your mother said you went away.

She said there was nothing that I coulda done,

There was nothing nobody could say

Pretty straightforward, but the suddenness of the lines – the fact that this departure just seems to catch him unaware one day – implies there is more going on. Maybe the old cliché, “You wake up one day and suddenly you’re an old man” really was at work. Maybe it’s not just a sad realization that his friend is gone, but also realization of what he began to observe a decade earlier with “Thunder Road" – (“...maybe we ain’t that young anymore.”) And as someone to whom 40 is now a distant memory, I can certainly understand the out-of-the-blue nature such a discovery brings with it.

He continues:

Well me and you we’ve known each other

Ever since we were 16.

And I wish I woulda known, I wish I coulda called you,

Just to say goodbye, Bobby Jean.

It’s funny how such a loving line also carries with it a certain amount of guilt, either intentional or not. The kind of guilt that only gets expressed in extremely latent ways, never overt, when confronted with the unavoidable. And beyond guilt, it's a sentiment with a hint of anger as well, the kind that will never be vocalized in a hostile way, but with which the narrator seems to be asking, "Why didn't you think you could call me about this? Don't you know what you've meant to me? Didn't I deserve at least that?" And the fact that this sentiment is twice repeated in the song drives home the underlying guilt – something Bruce has carried with him from his Catholic upbringing throughout his career and continually addresses.

The next verse brings more memories, more appreciation of the two great friends, who they are and who they were.

Now you hung with me when all the others

Turn away, turned up their nose.

We liked the same music, we liked the same bands,

We liked the same clothes.

And we told each other that we were the wildest,

The wildest things we’d ever seen.

And I wish I woulda known

I wish I coulda talked to you,

Just to say goodbye, Bobby Jean.

The clothes, the music, the attitude – “Man, we sure did things our own way, didn’t we?” – seems to be the statement Bruce puts out there. The way Hemingway did at the end of The Sun Also Rises when Brett tells Jake, “Oh Jake, we could have had such a damned good time together.” It is a statement hopelessly rhetorical in nature – a point driven home by Jake’s devastatingly poignant reply, “Yes. Isn’t it pretty to think so?” Someone searching for an answer he thinks he has, but will never know for sure.

The same paradigm exists for Bruce within the early lines of “Bobby Jean.” It’s a picture of someone seeking the kind of reassurance you look for when you feel your life getting away from you, for better or for worse. Only he knows he’s not going to get it.

The song moves along at its rollicking clip, with the Professor in particular never letting the mood dip, at least not musically. And then we reach the bridge, and we get the moment where we are hit with undoubtedly the key line of the song, and maybe one of the most revealing lines Bruce ever wrote:

Well we’d go walking in the rain,

Talkin’ about the pain from the world we hid.

And there ain’t nobody, nowhere, no how

Gonna ever understand me the way you did.

Many times when I listen to this song I have a hard time not getting choked up at this part, because it speaks so universal to that feeling of loss we all deal with. I think about this line in relation to longtime friends I still have, but whose relationships with me have changed dramatically over the decades. And it’s so easy to want those memories to stay fresh, and so hard to realize that memories is all they are now, and all they are ever going to be. After all, don’t we all long to have that one person who truly “gets us” like no one else?

But there’s even more to it now. A few years later he wrote, in my opinion, the saddest line of his entire brilliant career. It came at the apex of “One Step Up”  – “When I look at myself I don’t see the man I wanted to be.” But “Bobby Jean,” examined through the 20/20 spectrum of hindsight and placed against songs he hadn’t yet written, seems to hint that this time was coming. Success he had never imagined was coming with Born in the USA. He was to turn from rock star to icon in seemingly a heartbeat, and he knew it. He made his bones with The River and Nebraska and let it be known there was more depth to him than anyone could have possibly imagined, and with Born in the U.S.A. now he knew was making The Leap.

And two things were clear: Life was never going to be the same, and he now had to plow ahead without someone who helped him get there. Someone on whom Bruce could always lean during the rough times, perhaps more than any other pre-Patti bandmate he ever had.

This is where the transitional nature of this song comes full bore – he is not just saying goodbye to someone for whom he has a great fondness and affection. He is saying goodbye to the part of his life that allowed him to get where he is.

But this being the artist known to us as Bruce Springsteen, the man who from the very very beginning has been able to “look into the sights of the sun” and emerge okay, even at some of his darkest hours, he wraps the whole message up with unspeakably beautiful closure.

As gorgeous and optimistic as anything he’s ever written, maybe THE most optimistic thing he’d written since “Born to Run,” come the final lines of “Bobby Jean.”

Now maybe you’ll be out there on that road somewhere

Some bus or train, travelin’ along.

In some motel room, there’ll be a radio playin’,

And you’ll hear me sing this song.

And if you do, you’ll know I’m thinkin’ of you,

And all the miles in between.

And I’m just callin’ one last time,

Not to change your mind.

But just to say I miss you baby,

Good luck, goodbye Bobby Jean.

The past he loved and embraced is gone forever, stolen away into the ink of time. And it’s taken with him one of his greatest and truest friends, taken him away forever. And it’s left our hero a changed man, saddened and again hardened by loss, but still resolute to push forward. Never forgetting what he’s leaving behind, but knowing that something else is waiting for him ahead.

The final “goodbye” to Bobby Jean is a goodbye to what he’s known. A goodbye he hopes is heard by someone someday, even if it’s just through an old motel radio some place far away from him. And it’s mournful to be sure. But what he’s leaving has been too good and too pretty for him not to not press ahead for the next chapter, to see what’s out there.

Irreplaceable

(On this site you will notice we spend an awful lot of time talking about, among others,  The Beatles, Bruce Springsteen, REM and the Replacements. Just ‘cause. Here’s one about the latter. Because we care.)

“Shocking how nothing shocks anymore…”

Paul Westerberg, The Replacements, “We’ll Inherit The Earth” (1988)

One band the two of us tend to spend an inordinate amount of time talking about, and have for 20 years now, is the Replacements. Personal favorites of both of us and, sadly, precious few others. At least among people we know.         

     

The Replacements. Those lovable, reckless Minneapolis ne’er-do-wells who broke up just around the time that the musical style they helped to create took off into the mainstream. The irony is not lost on the hardcore fans, or even on those with a passing appreciation of the band. 

To wit: Goo Goo Dolls, Pearl Jam, Dinosaur Jr., Limp Bizkit, the dreaded Bush, the brilliant and erstwhile Nirvana? They all got rich off the sound that the ‘Mats laid down for them. The Replacements? All they got was drunk. 

So will history, in effect, treat them more kindly than the public did during their stay here on Earth? Hmm. Perhaps we should examine. In fact, let’s do so. I’ve got nothing better to do. And neither do you—quit kidding yourselves. Geez. 

The short answer is easy: Of course it will. It has to. There was just too much depth, too much weary honesty, too much sad beauty to the work they left behind (8 albums from 1981-1991) for it not to. And even though the masses never caught on to their music, even as they devoured everything disciples such as Johnny Reznikck put out, the years have indeed been kind to The Replacements' legacy since they checked out 21 years ago. A well-thought out and executed compilation of their Sire Records years—All For Nothing, Nothing For All –began the process of righting the band with history, as have other compilations and recent re-releases of the group’s first four records on the small Twin/Tone label. All show what the band could do,  the chops and goods these boys brought to the table with them. 

Who were the Replacements, and why should we care? They began as singer/guitarist Paul Westerberg, guitarist Bob Stinson, bassist Tommy Stinson (who was 12 when the band formed in 1979) and drummer Chris Mars. Bob Stinson, a searing, edgy, strung-out lead man who died in 1995, was sacked in 1986 and gave way to the calmer, straighter Slim Dunlop, while Mars was replaced by Steve Foley in the band’s final year. They hailed from music hotbed Minneapolis, MN (which at the same time was producing Prince, Husker Du, the Rainmakers, and Soul Asylum). That’s who they were. Now, why does it matter?

The legacy of the Replacements centers around Westerberg, their founder; the frontman, the peerless songwriter, the fearless leader. Westerberg’s status in the modern music world has grown enormously in the years since the band ambled off into the sunset, and deservedly so. He was the premier songwriter of his generation, seizing on a style that was trademarked by a leather-tough exterior but a soft, vulnerable inside. It was part Leonard Cohen, part Flannery O’Connor, part Charlie Bukowski that made Westerberg what he was (and in many ways still is): The once-drunken hoodlum with the soul of the poet.

The talent of Westerberg’s writing began to shine on the earliest B-side they ever released, the lost and lovely “If Only You Were Lonely,” the flip-side to non-hit “I’m In Trouble” and the first chapter in a career’s worth of beautifully ragged, wry word-game poetics he would come to offer. The lines could break your heart—“There was liquor on my breath, you were on my mind…And I’ll be dreaming of that smile without a care in the world…”—even as you got as drunk listening to them as the band likely did recording them.

The first two offerings the ‘Mats gave the world were rich with goofy, drunken studio excess—the equivalent of giving four 16-year-olds loaded on malt liquor free run of an adult video store for a night—with chestnuts of sheer brilliance occasionally poking a weary head through. Sorry Ma, Forgot To Take Out The Trash and Stink were not pretty, but they sure as hell were memorable. And they sure were fun to listen to.

It was on the band’s third studio release, though—1983’s Hootenanny—where the lightning fast, “power trash” sound began to morph into something deeper. Balladry was introduced in the do-it-all-Paul form of “Within Your Reach,” another tale of loneliness and hopeful longing (“I could live without your touch, die within your reach”). Not to disparage a fun and talented band whom I do like, but can you imagine the Red Hot Chili Peppers ever writing such a delicate and pretty line? And when the band reverted to its loud-n-fast bread-n-butter, the results (like fan-favorite “Color Me Impressed”) had more meat on them; they weren’t just goofing around and clanging it out anymore. It was loud, but it had a great big beating heart.

The feeling pervaded even more of 1984’s Let It Be with quieter, wrenching numbers like “Sixteen Blue,” “Unsatisfied,” and the anthemic “I Will Dare” and by the time 1985’s Tim was released, it was no longer a secret: these boys, led by Westerberg, could rock with the best of them, but they could also invade your heart with some of the sweetest, most heartfelt sounds of their era. In 1987 the brilliant Pleased To Meet Me came out — the first album fully without Bob Stinson— and the band now had a three-record run that rivaled anyone’s, and debate was on as to which one was the best. Did you prefer the shattered-glass rawness of Let It Be or the power-chord drenched anger of Tim? Or was the genre-bending ride of Pleased To Meet Me more your cuppa tea?

Simply put, this was the era where the Replacements made their bones. 1984-87 marked, for them, a creative peak similar to one enjoyed by the 1968-72 Rolling Stones. Just nowhere near as commercially successful.

And it was all intended to be one giant working body, one functioning circulatory system that kept the blood pumping despite the band’s paralyzing insecurities. On Let It Be’s “Unsatisfied,” the most wrenching and pain-filled song Westerberg ever wrote, we are brought in by a gorgeous 12-string guitar before he offers the simple and plaintively depressing truth—“Look me in the eye and tell me I’m satisfied. Was you satisified?” But by the end of the record, the hurt is still there and dripping out of him as he wails “How do you say goodnight to an answering machine?” And three years later, awash in the gorgeous pop-horn augmentation on Pleased To Meet Me’s closer, “Can’t Hardly Wait,” he’s still lying there in the gutter, ever-beaten and ever-hopeful. “I’ll write you a letter tomorrow; tonight, I can’t hold a pen.” In between, on Tim’s anthem-for-the-ages, “Bastards of Young,” the hurt is palpable but the reality almost seems to act as a salve: “The ones who love us best are the ones we’ll lay to rest, and visit their graves on holidays at best.”

To be sure, this was their time. Only R.E.M. was churning out records with such dizzying consistency and delivery of the goods. The Replacements had the material, and all they needed was the stage. Sadly, they never got it. The band had too much of a self-destructive edge (fueled by alcoholism, drug use, and a lack of foresight that the increasingly successful R.E.M. had) to see any long-range success. It was the Replacements moniker to grab the post-punk generation by the lapels and scream in its face. Problem was, once they had people’s attention, instead of following through, they were more apt to pass out.

The run would continue, albeit not quite as dramatically. 1988’s Don’t Tell A Soul still had that wretched beating heart and gutter poetry that only enhanced Westerberg’s rep as a songwriter without equal, but the layers and layers of studio polish added just a little too much water to the whiskey. And 1991’s finale, All Shook Down, was a terrific collection of wordsy, worldly tunes, but it read much more like a Paul Westerberg solo album, and in fact that Westerberg-Stinson-Dunlop-Mars lineup only appeared together on one track.

Still, for those who did notice, those 10 years when they were around had it all to offer. From the lonely, rebellious anthems (the magnificent one-two punch of “Bastards of Young” and “Left of the Dial” from Tim, the statement-of-purpose “I Will Dare” from Let It Be) to the tributes (they canonized punk godfather Alex Chilton in an eponymous Pleased To Meet Me track, and they spotlighted themselves in Don’t Tell A Soul’s “Talent Show” and “I’ll Be You”) to Westerberg’s trump card, the self-searching ballads (“Achin’ To Be,” “Here Comes A Regular,” “Skyway,” “Sixteen Blue,” and “Sadly Beautiful”).

It is by no means my intention to sell the bandmates short—after all, Chris Mars was a talented and risk-taking drummer, Tommy Stinson’s is to me the finest post-punk bassist ever and moved things along at a breakneck pace, and Bob’s guitar defined an era to come—but it was Paul Westerberg’s writing that set the band apart from any in their era. Just examine, for a minute, a quick sampling of Westerberg’s style—word-trickery blended in perfectly forlorn whimsy and hangdog longing: 

·      “Dressing sharp and feeling dull…”—“I’ll Be You” (Don’t Tell A Soul)

·      “If he was from Venus, would he meet us on the moon? If he died in Memphis, that’d be cool.”—“Alex Chilton” (Pleased To Meet Me)

·      “When you wish upon a star, it turns into a plane.”—“Valentine” (Pleased To Meet Me)

·      “It beats pickin’ cotton, or waiting to be forgotten”—“Bastards of Young” (Tim)

·      “Try and free a slave of ignorance, try and teach a whore about romance.”—“Answering Machine” (Let It Be)

·      “If you say nothing, well that’s something I understand.”—When It Began (All Shook Down)

·       “She’s kind of like a poet, who finds it hard to speak; The poems run so slowly, like the colors down a sheet”—“Achin’ To Be” (Don’t Tell A Soul)

It’s been more than 20 years since the final incarnation of the Mats played its final show on July 4, 1991. They lived with a scream and a wail, yet died with a whisper that hardly anyone noticed. Yet they live on in the music of their descendants. They live on amid  the continuing post-punk trails they helped to blaze. They live, thankfully. Irreplaceable after all.

The Top 50 Beatles Songs

So a few years back we decided to compile a few "best of" lists, starting with our favorite artists. After more than a little bloodshed, we finally decided to start with the Beatles. Winnowing the list down to what we considered their 50 best songs was...well, it's shocking we're still talking to each other. (Actually, we don't. But we do still type to one another. Sometimes. When the lawsuit settlement gives us no choice.) 

Because we're gluttons for punishment, we then decided to do brief write-ups on each song and post them on Facebook. Which at the time had a character limit of 420, I believe. Thus you'll note that these lil blurbs are not terribly expansive—although after a while we found we liked having to figure out what the one or two essential nuggets we wanted to say about each song was. 

So. There you go. The Top 50 Beatles Songs, now with opinionated factoids. 

“A Day in the Life” — A logical place to start, with the greatest tandem in rock-n-roll history at the height of their games, fusing together two completely different pieces of music so seamlessly you can’t imagine one without the other. The perfect ending to an album lauded for decades as rock-n-roll’s greatest innovation.

“A Hard Day’s Night” — No guitar song—from “Satisfaction” to “Smells Like Teen Spirit” — can surpass the opening G7add9sus4 chord for sheer uniqueness or power. John’s vocals sound exhausted and lascivious, while Paul’s are so exuberant. And the transition from second bridge to final verse, where John comes in with a simple, remarkable “mmm…”is the greatest vocal handoff in rock-n-roll.

“All My Loving” — A simple upbeat love song, right? One of thousands just like it, right? Find us one better. Find one with an opening as sweetly perfect as, “Close your eyes and I’ll kiss you, tomorrow I’ll miss you.” Add a rollicking guitar and great harmonies by not John, but George! This was one of their earliest announcements to the waiting world of what was to come. And darling, were they ever true. 

“And I Love Her” — No idea if a Latin-inflected acoustic love ballad surprised fans in 1964, but it’s still something to hear today. Such a departure from what they were doing, and still so successful. Paul’s vocals are perfect—his single-tracked “Bright are the stars...” line is stark and gorgeous, Ringo gives the song a backbone and a conscience and George’s solo is sweet simplicity. 

“And Your Bird Can Sing” — The Beatles rarely rocked harder, and never more perfectly, than this masterpiece. George’s unusually lengthy but gorgeous melodic lead, Paul’s perfect bassline, some interesting syncopation from Ringo. Add John’s magnificent vocal and pristine Beatle harmonies and you’ve got a highlight from their finest album-which is to say the finest album. All in under 2 minutes.

“Blackbird” — The era of singer-songwriter ballads that dominated the early 1970s wasn’t here yet, but Paul got a great headstart in 1968. Said to be inspired by racial strife in the UK, his lyrics are both melancholy and uplifting, and his own harmonies hang over the chorus like a Chagall angel. Tucked seamlessly into the sprawling mad artistry of The White Album, this is Paul at his finest.

“Come Together” — “Shoot me,” John eerily whispers. He claps as he sings, laying so much echo on top that it’s hard to understand what he’s saying. Paul’s stormy-sea bassline, Ringo’s unprecedentedly orchestral drum arrangement and John’s surreal, disturbing lyrics give you a composition unlike any previously in rock. This would be where grunge was invented, if they hadn’t already done so.

“Day Tripper” — Few Beatles compositions have an opening guitar riff this memorable, conceived by John and performed by George. Other highlights are John and Paul’s vocals, where they effortlessly switch parts on the chorus, and the delectable falsetto they hit on the final chorus. One of their earlier entries into edgy, rapscallion lyrics and subject material, and one of their best, too.

“Eleanor Rigby” — None of the Beatles contribute anything but vocals on this, one of the only songs John and Paul disagreed about who did what: John took credit for most of it, Paul said it was all his. What it is is their most brilliant non-rock rock song, a complex and haunting and groundbreaking look at loneliness, a lightyear away from rock musically and yet utterly rock and roll in spirit.

“Eight Days a Week” —Jaunty, breezy pop fun at it best. Supposedly based, like “A Hard Day’s Night,” on a Ringo malapropism, it starts with a rare fade-IN. Bookended by George’s great chord progressions, the bop-a-lu swing of the verses grinds down to a capella harmonic fun at each bridge, with the band again lost in the moment of sheer rock-n-roll splendor. Who cares if they didn’t like it much?

“For No One” — In Paul’s brilliant canon of love songs, none top this 2-minute bit of perfection embedded in the marrow of the peerless Revolver. The melody is simple and gorgeous. Paul’s vocals rival “Here There and Everywhere” for his best ever. And Alan Civil’s epochal horn drifts down to earth from some magical place, attaching an ethereal level of sadness to this sweet, mournful masterwork.

“Get Back” — Three chords, two verses, one guest, no bridge. A slightly unusual drum part, hints of drug use and sexual ambiguity. (Lyrically, that is). Called a return to rock-n-roll basics, but while it was clearly rock—and basic—rock had never quite sounded like this before. And yet it was instantly familiar. The last song the boys ever performed live, fittingly and ironically. (In the Alanis sense.)

“Got to Get You Into My Life” — This wasn’t released as a single for 10 years and it still went Top 10...6 years after they broke up. Rolling Stone considers “If I am true I will never leave and if I do I know the way there” Paul’s funniest line. Great melody, a horn section, killer vocals and Ringo’s typically perfect drumming brings it home. No wonder John thought this one of Paul’s finest ever.

“Happiness is a Warm Gun” — In which the Beatles invent prog. Or would have, had they not already with “A Day in the Life.” 5 sections, multiple time signatures and polyrhythms add up to Paul’s favorite song on The White Album, even though it wasn’t his. And with the doo-wop chorus of “bang bang, shoot shoot,” we get yet another eerie John reference to gun violence.  

“Help!” — Title track of their gleefully absurd 2^nd film is an early John foray into confessional writing. (He even admits, “I’ve opened up the door.”) Supposedly John wanted it to be slower, given the glum subject matter. The upbeat melody is wryly juxtaposed against the downbeat lyrics, John’s voice is ragged and revealing, and Paul’s responsive harmonies are sunny and perfect.

“Helter Skelter” — In which the Beatles invent grunge.

“Here Comes the Sun” — And to think George was give little opportunity to write songs! Gorgeous arpeggios, lush production and shining optimism that belied the band’s tense final years make this one of the sweetest songs ever written. He captures exactly where they were in those waning days, and maybe what allowed them to still find gold: “Little darling, I feel that ice is slowly melting.”

“Here, There and Everywhere” —It’s almost unfair this and “For No One” appear on the same album. Unfair to every other artist, that is. For the Beatles, one of them (in this case Paul) took a genre(in this case the lovely love song) and did it better than anyone ever had. Neat touch: the first verse centers around the word “here,” the second “there” and the bridge “everywhere.” And John was the word guy?

“Hey Jude” — Paul wrote this for Julian, of course, upset over his parents’ divorce...but John first thought Paul’d written it for him. Ah, the power of music (and self-importance). The longest song ever to hit #1 in the US and UK, Paul’s ad-libbing in the extended outro has always seemed curiously overlooked. A textbook example of simple not equaling simple-minded. 

“I Am the Walrus” — Mellotron and orchestra mesh with an unspeakably catchy melody and the best of John’s oddball lyrics. Fusing together broken bits of nursery rhyme, Lewis Carroll and (shocker!) a smidge of LSD, this song gave us phrases like “crabalocker fishwife” and “expert textpert.” And it wraps with a romp of noise that is left for the ages to figure out. “Goo goo ga joob!”

“I Feel Fine” — The Fabs clearly loved rock’s country roots, as evidenced by several Carl Perkins covers. Here they introduce “country rock,” building a bridge from Carl Perkins to Gram Parsons to alt-country. After the raunchy feedback that tees is up, John/George drive it down the fairway with an edgy jangle, paced along by some fine Ringo drums. And the harmonies are among their most gorgeous ever.

“I Saw Her Standing There” — Paul shouts “One two three fah!”...and rock-n-roll is changed forever. The original lyrics: “Well she was just 17, never been a beauty queen.” But John knew that wouldn’t do, and suggested themuch naughtier, “Well, she was just 17—you KNOW what I mean.” When listeners touched the needle down on the first song on the first album the Beatles ever made, this is what they heard. Perfection.

“I Want to Hold Your Hand” — The shot heard ‘round the world, kicking off the (good) British Invasion. The irrepressible ebullience, the propulsive drums, the little blue notes George bends in there. Most of all the melody which grabs your heart and never lets go and hell if you want it to. As Dave Marsh said, they got more sophisticated but they never got better...because you can’t improve perfection.

“If I Fell” — John sounds so alone as he sings alone at the start; vulnerable, exposed. The song then soars on the most intricate, taxing harmonies John/Paul ever created—as Tim Riley said in his book, “Both lines are so lyrical it’s hard to say just which one is the melody.” The doubt in the lyrics provides an elegiac quality, while George’s guitar trails the vocals like a watchful spirit.

“If I Needed Someone” — George’s first great song shows him solidifying his standoffish persona. John and Paul are mixed so high that at times their harmonies appear to be the melody. Heavily influenced by the Byrds who, of course, were heavily influenced by the Beatles, the vocal line is completely syncopated without the normal resolution and yet rather than feeling unsettled, it feels absolutely right. 

“I’ll Be Back”—A dark close to the effervescent A Hard Day’s Night album. Propelled by acoustic guitars with a razor’s edge, the arrangement is unusual, avoiding repetitions, instead relentlessly moving forward with two different bridges and a circle chord structure which goes back and forth between major and minor, leaving the listener uneasy...but entranced.

“In My Life” — A John masterpiece, but also the last song he and Paul wrote together. Bathed in nostalgic glow, this is his first attempt to tell his story, as his delicate vocals play against the lush backdrop of guitars, electric piano, and some of Ringo’s most subtly unique drumming. It succeeds brilliantly, balancing between whimsy and melancholy without ever lapsing into sentimentality.

“I’ve Just Seen A Face” — Perhaps the simplest song of our list, Paul reaches back to his skiffle days, with a dash of country and sprinkling of folk. But the sunny tone and infectious melody craftily disguise that this delightful love-at-first-sight tune is maybe just the tiniest bit overzealous, bordering on stalker territory? Or maybe we’re just jaded...

“Julia” — Deep in The White Album lies John’s most tender vocal ever. Spare yet complex as a Japanese koan, it’s a tribute to the women who shaped him. The title character, of course, to whom he sings “this song of love” is his late mother, killed when he was 17. But “ocean child” literally translates to “Yoko” in English. A bouquet to two strong women, from a man who changed music forever.

“Let It Be” — Oddly, our countdown brings us—back to back—the band’s only two songs written for/about deceased mothers, this one from Paul. What more can really be said about it? It’s one of the most beautiful songs ever written, with sentiments of optimism and patience that will last forever. That it was written at a time when the band was all but broken up? Staggering.

“Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds” — In the hands of any other band this piece of psychedelia, inspired by a drawing young Julian Lennon brought home, would have been laughably dated 18 months later. Instead it’s genuinely magical, its surreal lyrics carried along on yet another amazing melody, wonderful keyboards, great bass and, oh yes, those untouchable Beatles vocals. Follow her down. 

“Nowhere Man” — More early(ish) confessional writing from John, with perhaps the most pristine 3-part harmony the band ever produced. Another example of their paradox-laden approach to songwriting: George’s jagged guitar solo adds a foreboding offshoot to a somewhat (and ironically) cheery melody, while the sensitive lyrical plea in the chorus pulls hard against the biting words of the verses.

“Norwegian Wood” — They’d already recorded a Dylan-influenced song, but this may be their finest; fine enough, in fact, for Dylan to pay homage with his own “4th Time Around.” The only song on this list in 6/8 time, it’s notable for John’s inability to not write about an affair, as well as George’s sitar accompaniment, and the ambiguous final line: does he get stoned, or burn the house down? 

“Paperback Writer” —Irony alert: a band with the Midas Touch writing about the dire need for a big break. It’s a key transitional song in their history—the unreal harmony calisthenics John/Paul/George perform (including the background “Frere Jacques”), George’s astounding lead guitar and Ringo’s power drumming create a gaudy sound in a baroque arrangement, forecasting the astonishing things to come.

“Penny Lane” — Such an elegant song, pure and lovely, nothing tricky or complex. It takes us to a long-ago place, vivid with memorable characters. Years after last hearing it, we can quickly recall the banker without a mac, or the pretty nurses selling poppies.  Paul gives us a snapshot of a beautiful place a person goes to in his head to feel fine again.

“Rain” — In their spare time, the Beatles invent psychedelic rock. Noted for the dreamy lyrics and innovative studio techniques, including the famous backwards looping at the end, it’s John’s favorite B-side.  Ringo calls it a favorite, too, with his fascinating drum breaks injecting a level of chaos. It spawned 1,000 pale imitators in the late-60s psychedelic haze, but still stands alone.

“Revolution” — First a guitar so shrill it makes your sinuses hurt. Then a piercing John scream. Then we’re awash in the pros and cons of revolution, and how when it comes to destruction you can count John out (in). It adds up to the iconic song of 1968, evoking police riots and Vietnam and all the turmoil of the era. Maybe their most vitriolic single, yet customarily flawless. All right! 

“She Loves You” — The tumbling drums at the start was the sound of America falling head over heels in love. The lads stake their turf—an unusual direct address, odd final 6th chord and implied threat: she loves you, so love her back...or I will. (And with their looks and talent...) Most of  all, the vernacular “yeah yeah yeah” heralded an inescapable changing of the guard. Nothing was ever the same.

“Something” — Before she looked wonderful tonight, before she was Layla, there was "something” in the way Patti Boyd moved. A bit schmaltzy? Maybe. But every inch is lovely—the splendid guitar lead-in, Ringo’s pitter-pat drums resembling a fast-beating heart, and George’s tender, hushed vocals. Frank Sinatra hailed it, Ray Charles devoured it, and in the band’s twilight, it was one more gem.

“Strawberry Fields Forever” — Jackson Browne cites this an example of not just a great song or great performance, but a great record, something to which he always aspired. He’s one of the all-time greats...but he’s never going to match this, a John lyric both confessional and surreal, sung sublimely, and paired with perhaps George Martin’s most unbelievable magic. You’re right, John: no one was in your tree.

“Taxman” — The lads took openings seriously, so for George to kick off their finest album ain’t no small thang. Showing more generosity than the taxman himself, George lets Paul play the guitar solo (and the bassline which anchors the tune?) which, oddly, has a slightly Indian bent to it. Appropos the eternal Beatles v Stones/pop v rock argument: in which universe is this not rock and roll? 

“Things We Said Today” — The B-side to “A Hard Day’s Night” finds Paul in a rare gloomy mood (for him, anyway), lamenting—at the ripe old age of 22—love losing its spark. An interesting arrangement, with minor key verses that change to major at the bridge. The rumbling guitar augments the tense mood, as do John’s sparingly used harmonies. It’s nostalgia turned on its head—Don Draper would be proud.

“Ticket to Ride” — First a loud, jangly guitar with an edge that could cut glass. Then Ringo kicks in with a great syncopated drumbeat. Soon enough, John thinks he’s going to be sad, because the girl he’s nuts for is leaving him. Filled to the top with uber-bravado, sexuality, and even double entendre, with a wild double-time refrain to close it out, this was bold move for 1965. And it worked.

“Tomorrow Never Knows” — One of the trippiest, spookiest songs the lads would ever record. Although obviously a John song, Paul had a major hand in producing the amazing loops (with a clear Indian feel: thank you, George) which constitute so much of the song. John’s incredible lyrics float atop a drone which stays, more or less, a C major chord throughout, predating even “Cold Sweat” in its minimalism.

“Two of Us” — For hardcore Beatlemaniacs, this unplugged(ish) performance is perhaps the most emotionally overwhelming recording in the band’s catalog. George plays bass on the electric guitar, Ringo mainly kicks the bass drum on all four, and John and Paul pull out their inner Everly Brothers for the last and best time. “You and me chasing paper, getting nowhere on our way back home.” Paul claimed it was written for Linda. We know better.

“When I’m Sixty Four” — Paul supposedly began writing this when he was 17. He finished it for the immortal Sgt. Pepper album when he was 25. And now he’s well past 64, and it’s still here. Sweet, corny, lovable and silly, it’s proof that there’s no set formula for writing love songs. Driven along by woodwinds and a jaunty piano, this is one for the ages. Literally. And of course we still need him.

“Yellow Submarine” — What’s this one doing here? Simple: it’s the finest novelty song ever—no mean feat, that. A crazy catchy kid’s song which, incredibly, manages to get under your skin and yet you don’t mind. Charming and whimsical with delightful sound effects and madcap backing vocals, the lads conjure up an utterly ridiculous world into which it’d be delightful to sink. Climb aboard.


“Yesterday” — Two minutes and four seconds from Paul and Paul alone says it all about loss and longing. Famously called “Scrambled Eggs” at first, all it did was become part of the soundtrack to our lives, as well as the most covered song in music history. Beautiful chord changes, subtle strings that accompany the simple guitar, and the sad, wistful words add up to a song for everyone. Forever.

“You Never Give Me Your Money/Sun King/Mean Mr. Mustard/Polythene Pam/She Came In Through the Bathroom Window/Golden Slumbers/Carry That Weight/The End”—It seems the perfect way to end this perfectly arguable list is with this almost indescribably perfect creation, the varying styles and disparate selections all mashed together to end Abbey Road...and with it the Beatles perfect career.

• “You Never Give Me Your Money”—The solo piano which kicks off their final masterpiece gives no hint of the complexity to follow. Paul’s soft, plaintive vocals, lamenting the triumph of business over art, is soon belied by the entrance of the band, with John and George’s gentle backing vocals, George’s incisive lead and myriad stylistic shifts, passing through boogie-woogie and into rock before drifting away with the toiling of church bells. “Soon we’ll be away from here—step on the gas and wipe that tear away. One sweet dream came true today.” Yes it did. 

• “Sun King”—Dreamy and atmospheric, in lesser hands this could have turned into a snoozefest, especially on the heels of the rockin’ “Money” outro. Instead, it sucks the listener in and sends him down a river of peaceful nonsense, buoyed by insanely lush vocals from all three, and John’s trademark gibberish. 

• ‎”Mean Mr. Mustard”—Up next is a lovely glimpse of the British folk that very possibly only John could see, Also, you gotta really dig the crunchy guitar/piano combos that fill in the gaps between the later verses. Nice and sinister, just the way John liked it. 

• “Polythene Pam”—And then we meet Mr. Mustard’s sister. Pam Mustard. Also known as Polythene Pam. Power chords and vocals that sound like John’s been gargling sand make this so much fun. Oh, and where have we heard that “Yeah Yeah Yeah” before? 

• “She Came in Through the Bathroom Window”—Then suddenly we are in the middle of a soap opera found somewhere in Paul’s mind, which, yes, could be just a adventurous as John’s. A funky little backbeat features some nice George moments, and the terrific harmonies prove to be the penultimate turn from the band that practically invented them. Oh yeah! 

• “Golden Slumbers”—Who else but Paul could make a lullaby sound cool? Of all the transitions that appear in the joyful noise of this suite, this may be the most impressive, going from the hip swagger of “Bathroom Window” to this muted piano opening. Did it work? If you have to ask, you haven’t been paying attention these past few months. 

• “Carry That Weight”—Ringo’s drums provide the intro to the last sections of the medley, nicely echoing his role kicking off “She Loves You” so many centuries before. Then, for almost the only time in their history, all four Beatles provide vocals, calling out the ever so prophetic line. George Martin adds some orchestration which hearkens back to the melody of “You Never Give Me Your Money,” setting up Paul’s vocal return to the same song. One short verse before the lads concede that, indeed, he’ll—they’ll—be carrying that weight a long time. 

• ‎”The End”—And it all comes to this. Paul wonders if there’s a dream ahead. Ringo answers with the easiest and most melodic drum solo in the history of rock. Then Paul, George and John trade solos, thrice each, each wonderfully capturing the essence of its composer: Paul’s the most melodious, George’s the most virtuosic, and John’s the most nasty. For a medley widely considered largely Paul’s baby, it’s fitting that John takes the final guitar solo, spitting out the same note 13 times in a row, stunning everyone to silence, leaving nothing but a single piano note stuttering over and over.
  
  “And in the end,” Paul says, and pauses. But old feelings die hard and the rest of the lads have his back. They join in, summing it all up, harmonizing about love one last time. All good things must end, and there’s no more perfect ending in musical history. Thank you, boys. Yes, you passed the audition.