Circa 1976 (L-R): Bassist Harry Kakoulli, Glen Tilbrook, Chris Difford, drummer Gilson Lavis, Jools Holland

Perhaps the second best known English songwriting team in rock (does anyone really think of Jagger-Richards in those terms?), Chris Difford and Glen Tilbrook of Squeeze were/are widely-regarded as the natural successors to Lennon-McCartney. In point of fact, theirs was a truer collaboration than John and Paul’s typically was, with Tilbrook supplying the melodies (and nearly always, the lead vocals) to Difford’s witty, dry, and inescapably British prose. The two, along with keyboardist Jools Holland, formed the
backbone of Squeeze in 1974.

 

The band chose their name (in a bit of irony) as a “tribute” to the album of the same name released by New York’s legendary Velvet Underground in 1973; with all the group’s mainstays departed by the time of the recording, celebrating their most unrepresentative album would be the equivalent of someone paying similar homage to The Doors’ Other Voices or CCR’s Mardi Gras. The VU association with Squeeze continued when the band hired the Velvet’s co-founder John Cale to produce their self-titled debut in 1978. (In the U.S., the album was dubbed U.K. Squeeze to avoid a conflict with the now-forgotten band, Tight Squeeze.) 

 

Their debut contained the rather unique sounding “Take Me I’m Yours,” which featured Tilbrook’s sharp tenor paired with Difford’s baritone growl to create a third voice (much like the fusion of Lindsey Buckingham’s and Christine McVie’s singing). The song landed them firmly in the U.K.’s Top Twenty while doing nothing at all in the states. At this stage of their career, Squeeze – like labelmates The Police around the same time – were not shy about exploiting the dying embers of punk, taking to presenting themselves as with one with their audience via safety pins and other punk trappings. (They later would profess a complete disdain for the genre.) 

 

Indeed, what Squeeze did best in the best post-Beatles tradition was offer up meticulously crafted pop, welding a love of observational wordplay with hooks that were sure to make Paul jealous. The endlessly inventive Jools Holland helped color their instrumental texture, while onstage, drummer Gilson Lavis drove the band with an energy that certainly emulated the punks in spirit. Their hit singles streak continued in England with the title track to their follow-up, “Cool for Cats” (croaked by Difford) and  “Up The Junction” (a soap opera set to music). 

 

Following relentless touring, 1980 saw the release of their most fully realized album to date, Argybargy. It featured the hits “Another Nail In My Heart” and “Pulling Mussels (From The Shell),” songs that actually received some airplay on the more cutting-edge radio stations in America. Despite the upward trending career-wise, Holland quit around this time to start a band built around his boogie-woogie piano stylings, The Millionaires.

   

Despite the Lennon-McCartney handle, Difford and Tilbrook soldiered on, recruiting former Ace (“How Long”) keyboardist/vocalist Paul Carrack for their 1981 album, East Side Story. (It’s Carrack’s voice heard handling most of the vocals on their U.S. breakthrough single, “Tempted.” He would soon depart for a solo career and vocal  duty with Genesis’ Mike Rutherford’s side band, Mike + The Mechanics.) As originally conceived, East was to be a double album, with each side featuring a different producer: Elvis Costello; Dave Edmunds; Nick Lowe: and Paul McCartney. Suffice to say, this did not happen. 

 

After dissolving in 1982 following a Saturday Night Live “farewell” appearance, the band went their separate ways until a 1985 reformation, which featured Holland. Since then, the “Squeeze” brand has been applied to whomever Difford and Tilbrook play with.

As a final Beatle note, Holland – by the 1990s a well-established fixture on the tube in Britain – was chosen to act as unseen interviewer for much of the Beatles Anthology documentary. In 2002, he turned in a well-received performance, backing singer Sam Brown at the Concert For George event with a rendition of George’s final recording, “Horse To The Water” (which appeared on Holland’s Small World Big Band release).

All material copyright 2010 by Robert Rodriguez. No unauthorized reproduction permitted without the express written permission of the author.

Purchase Fab Four FAQ 2.0: The Beatles' Solo Years, 1970-1980 here. 

 

As the recipient of the most notorious copyright infringement lawsuit(s) in rock history, one can understand George’s bile, as expressed in his 1973 “Sue Me, Sue You Blues”: “Bring your lawyer and I’ll bring mine / Get together and we can have a bad time.” That the aggressive pursuit for monetary damages came over a spiritual tune expressing devotion to the Almighty was an incongruity seemingly lost on everyone. 

 

The courtroom proceedings pitted one set of musical experts against another, included behind the scenes jockeying by Allen Klein, and ultimately led to George paying a fine before taking ownership of the song he was found to have accidentally boosted. With the whole complicated mess dragging out for years, here is a summary of the salient points. 

 

In late 1970 – just a year after enjoying his first and only Beatle A-side – “My Sweet Lord” became George Harrison’s debut solo single. Despite his own misgivings about issuing the song in this fashion (being perhaps mindful of Billy Preston’s concurrent cover version), popular demand from radio stations forced his hand. While Paul hadn’t yet released a solo seven-inch disc outside the Fabs, John had by this time placed a raft of Plastic Ono Band singles into the Top Forty. Both men must have been truly stunned to watch their junior partner unleash a monster upon the world, scoring the first ex-Beatle number one. 

 

With the accolades came some unwanted attention from the publishers of the 1963 Chiffons hit, “He’s So Fine.” The absurdly named Bright Tunes recognized that, beneath the layers of orchestration, “Hare Krishnas,” and “Hallelujahs,” there lurked a passing resemblance to one of their own holdings. (The actual songwriter had been a 25 year-old amateur named Ronnie Mack, who had pounded doors relentlessly before finding a taker for his compositions. Tragically, he was diagnosed with Hodgkin’s disease soon after and was literally on his deathbed in the hospital when awarded a gold record for the hit.) 

 

Just as “My Sweet Lord” had completed its ninth week of ten in Billboard’s Top Ten (four of those weeks lodged at number one), Bright Tunes filed suit against George, Apple, Harrisongs, and every other connected party they could serve. As it happened, Bright Tunes was in financial disarray at the time – that an ex-Beatle had apparently appropriated their property to score a mega-hit must’ve seemed (ironically enough) like a godsend. 

 

Through Allen Klein, George offered to buy Bright Tunes. Had the proposition been accepted, it would undoubtedly have spared George much grief, as well as public embarrassment. But instead, Bright’s owner, Seymour Barash, wanted George to turn over the copyright of “My Sweet Lord” to him (with George to retain half the monies generated). The counter-offer was spurned, Bright Tunes went into receivership, and that’s where things lay for the next five years.

 

In February 1976, George found himself in the witness box in a New York City courtroom, giving an extended explanation into the origins of “My Sweet Lord.” By the end of the proceedings, several facts revealed themselves. First, the court ruled that the two songs were musically indistinguishable, with common note progressions and the presence of an uncommon “grace note,” akin to a fingerprint. “Motif A” and “motif B” were shown to overlap between the songs, but the grace note proved key. 

 

Second, while George had come up with the germ of the composition himself, the musical ideas had been fleshed out by Billy Preston and Delaney Bramlett during their late 1969 tour, when the soon-to-be ex-Fab had introduced the bare bones of the song during a jam. In fact, the “smoking gun” of the case – the errant grace note – occurs in Billy’s recording and not George’s. He did come up with the original concept and did write the final lyrics, but many hands shaped the tune itself.

 

As sole attributed author on the song, George lay himself open to take the financial hit. Had he issued “My Sweet Lord” as a joint composition, perhaps some of the “blame” might have been spread around. (Absorbing ideas from others during the journey a song makes from idea to recording remains a touchy subject. The Rolling Stones are a perfect example of a band that might properly share co-writing credits – but don’t. The issue was a sore point with bassist Bill Wyman, who conceived the signature riff to “Jumping Jack Flash,” while guitarist Mick Taylor rightfully pointed out that “Time Waits For No One,” among other tunes, was his baby. Both songs are credited Jagger-Richards.)  

 

The most stunning revelation concerned Allen Klein. By the time the case had come to trial, he was no longer representing three-quarters of the band formerly known as the Beatles. Instead, he was embroiled in litigation of his own against his former clients and further, had “flipped.” Armed with intimate knowledge of the sales of “My Sweet Lord” and thus how much revenue the song had generated, he secretly made an offer to buy Bright Tunes, not for George but for ABKCO. By controlling the copyright of “He’s So Fine,” Klein was also taking over the lawsuit and now suing George himself.

 

With the latter’s offer still on the table before the trial started and another from Klein, Barash and company correctly divined that Klein almost certainly knew how the case would end and therefore what Bright Tune’s stock would be worth. But the parties could not agree on a final price before proceedings resumed.

 

In August 1976, the court ruled that George was guilty of “subconscious plagiarism.” Familiar with “He’s So Fine,” the court asserted that he inwardly had to have known that the combination of notes and chords that he put together would work, though on a conscious level George did not realize what he was replicating. With copyright infringement thus determined, a complicated formula set the damages at $1.5 million, based on the song’s earnings (calculating its single and sheet music sales, as well as commercial value to both All Things Must Pass and The Best of George Harrison).

 

However, the sale of Bright Tunes to Klein between the trial and the damages phase of the litigation threw the proceedings into disarray. To sum up what took well into the 1980s to settle: George successfully amended his pleading to assert that Klein’s meddling in the case had unnecessarily muddied the waters. The judge agreed, and George himself was able to take ownership of “He’s So Fine” by paying Klein the purchase price – the latter would not profit by his shady dealings.  

 

Rock’s rich tapestry is replete with borrowed musical ideas and “tributes.” Far stronger cases for plagiarism can certainly be made against other songs, but the worldwide success of “My Sweet Lord” made it a target. The affair didn’t seem to damage George’s reputation too badly in the short run: he rebounded that year with a strong album, Thirty- Three & 1/3, which included his own defiant take on the case: “This Song.” 

 

But others wouldn’t let go so easily. In their 1977 Beatle parody issue, National Lampoon magazine savaged George by featuring an “unreleased” album he’d recorded, Lifting Material From The World.  The cover art sported George in court being sworn in, fingers crossed, while the album itself was claimed to contain such Harrisongs as “My Sweet Lullaby of Broadway” and “My Sweet Beethoven’s 9th Symphony.” English pop empresario Jonathan King couldn't resist the obvious; he issued a take of "He's So Fine" arranged just like "My Sweet Lord." 

 

In his 1980 Playboy interview, John, no stranger to copyright infringement himself, claimed that George knew exactly what he was doing. “Maybe he thought God would just sort of let him off.”

All material copyright 2010 by Robert Rodriguez. No unauthorized reproduction permitted without the express written permission of the author.

Purchase Fab Four FAQ 2.0: The Beatles' Solo Years, 1970-1980 here. 

It is entirely likely that, had they not diverted their career path into a stint or two on television, that the Hudson Brothers would be regarded today for what they were: a serious trio of pop craftsmen, steeped in Beatleisms, to be sure, but possessing an energy and tunefulness that stands alongside the best of Badfinger or The Raspberries. Instead, they are likely remembered by most as a bubblegum act that had a kid’s TV show. It’s the same sort of taint that plagues the Monkees, notwithstanding the fact they were equally talented at both media
.

 

The brothers Hudson discovered music in their native Portland, Oregon in 1964 – the same year that the world and its possibilities were changed for an entire generation. Fourteen year-old Bill, the oldest brother (the family name was actually Salerno) and a friend took up guitar and practiced singing harmony together. Already thoroughly enamored of the Beatles, the two were soon joined by thirteen year-old Mark, who himself possessed a wonderful voice and played a mean tambourine. As a trio, the ensemble entertained at parties during high school, calling themselves My Sirs.
  

 

Not long after, baby brother Brett conned his way into the group and took up bass, completing the foursome. (He’d been sick and, after they promised him they’d let him play with them if he got better, a miracle cure occurred.) By 1966, My Sirs were one of the Pacific Northwest’s top-ranked groups, winning a battle of the bands and drawing notice. An advertising exec employed by Chrysler liked what he saw and took them on as clients, booking them to perform at dealerships and company events around the country. The catch was: they had to change their name to a Chrysler product. For this reason, My Sirs became The New Yorkers.

Already penning their own material by this time, the group released a trio of singles on Scepter Records. The first, “When I’m Gone,” made it to number nine on the regional charts. The brothers would soon learned a hard lesson about the ways of the music industry after discovering that their manager, having placed all their assets in his name, had robbed them blind to the tune of six figures. The devastating revelation knocked them for a loop, causing the brothers to reconsider their future as they took a year off.

After a change in personnel (Kent Fillmore, the one non-Hudson, was replaced by Bob Haworth), the New Yorkers decided to give it another shot and recorded Harry Nilsson’s “I Guess The Lord Must Be In New York City.” Decca picked it up, but soon after lost interest, leaving the boys stranded on the East Coast. The boys made it back home, took stock, and decided that a move to Los Angeles would best serve their future. In 1972, they issued an album on Playboy Records entitled Hudson. Though not exactly a hit, their well-honed stage act began drawing notice.

 

In 1973, their manager introduced them to Bernie Taupin, Elton John’s lyricist. Both Elton and Bernie were blown away by their music and their charisma, leading to their signing to Elton’s Rocket Records (making them label-mates with Stackridge). Taupin himself assumed the production chores on Totally Out Of Control, recorded in England and issued that same year. The album was a wonderfully realized pop/rock showcase, displaying their Beatle devotion without being slavish. (The second side even featured an Abbey Road-like medley.) A single, the marvelously Brit-pop-ish “If You Really Need Me,” fully showcased the Hudson’s musical talents but went completely overlooked by radio programmers.

 

The Hudson’s arrived back in the states to discover that television producer Chris Bearde, whom they’d met at a party months before, was interested in securing them for a short-run summer replacement series for the immensely popular Sonny and Cher Comedy Hour.  After the formality of an audition, The Hudson Brothers Show premiered on July 31, 1974. Implementing the same production team as S&C, the show followed the same successful formula, substituting the innately zany personas of the brothers. Like the Beatles in their day, the Hudson’s comic interactions also elicited comparisons to the Marx Brothers, making both acts renowned for their humor as much as for their music.

 

A certified hit, the Hudson’s segued seamlessly from the summer stint straight into their own series aimed at younger viewers on Saturday mornings. The Hudson Brothers Razzle Dazzle Show commenced on CBS on September 7 (the same day as the first Beatlefest, with which brother Mark would one day be inextricably associated). Featuring an array of shtick and cast regulars (Chucky Margolis; Rod Hull and Emu; The Bear; announcer Gary Owens), the show was nothing less than an adolescent version of Laugh-In, with a dose of music thrown in.

 

Coincidentally, it was their Laugh-In connection that gave them their most enduring musical hit. Bill was dating one of that show’s cast members, the relentlessly bubbly Goldie Hawn.  But it was Mark that would pen and sing lead on a song inspired by her, “So You Are A Star.” Released as a single (from the album Hollywood Situation), the eerily Lennon-esque piano ballad peaked at twenty-one, making them a genuine national chart success at last.  (As for Bill and Goldie, they would marry in 1976, producing actress Kate Hudson and actor Oliver Hudson, before splitting in 1980.)

 

The Hudson Brothers scored a couple of more hits (1975’s “Rendezvous,” co-written with Beach Boy Bruce Johnston) and “Lonely School Year” before their charting career faded. As for Razzle Dazzle, it lasted seventeen episodes in all, but continued airing in repeats for another three years. (In 2008, the much-loved series was at last released on DVD.)

 

The Hudson’s parlayed their hard-earned connections into the ex-Fab’s inner circle. They met all four during the seventies and indeed, hung out with their hero John Lennon (who dubbed them “the Kings of Saturday morning”) during the Los Angeles epoch. They were present on the night of the infamous Smothers Brothers/Troubadour incident; a fonder memory came one time at Harry Nilsson’s house when John serenaded them with an impromptu 5AM performance of “In My Life,” played on a battery-powered piano.

 

In later years, Mark – the most high-profiled of the group – would spearhead Ringo’s latter-day recording renaissance as his producer/collaborator, revitalizing the Ringed One’s gifts and giving him the confidence to generate a string of really fine releases. (Unfortunately, a business conflict derailed the friendship in 2006.) He also co-wrote Aerosmith’s Grammy-winning smash, “Livin’ On The Edge,” and remains a popular guest at The Fest For Beatles Fans.

Brother Bill enjoys a successful career in properties: both television and real estate. Brett has been busy with Frozen Pictures, a production company. In 2008, his documentary on the life and times of Bonzo Rutle Neil Innes debuted, entitled The Seventh Python, while an upcoming project centers on early '60s pop singer Chris Montez ("Let's Dance"). 

All material copyright 2010 by Robert Rodriguez. No unauthorized reproduction permitted without the express written permission of the author.

Purchase Fab Four FAQ 2.0: The Beatles' Solo Years, 1970-1980 here. 

Picking up at around the same time the Beatles were winding down, Stackridge was an English prog/pop band, though in truth their music defied classification. Over the course of five albums during their initial run, their albums blended elements of folk, psychedelia, classical, English music hall, and old time jazz. Among their contemporaries, they were poppier than Yes, but quirkier than Supertramp.

Their self-titled debut was released in 1971; their final long-player prior to their break-up, Mr. Mick, was issued in early 1976. During that career span, they qualified as a cult act, for though they toured relentlessly and appeared on The Old Grey Whistle Test in their homeland, they never really sustained any commercial success. In America, they really couldn’t get arrested. Part of this was due to a chronic instability, with members coming and going (and sometimes returning). Another was simply that their music didn’t really qualify as overtly commercial; a hit single was beyond both their talents and interests.

To some, Stackridge was known as “the West Country Beatles.” This handle probably didn’t help them connect with an audience at all, especially in England, where at that time, the public tended to disdain any perceived Fab pretenders. Stackridge didn’t shy away from the comparisons – indeed, they covered “Norwegian Wood” on the very public John Peel BBC radio program, while their albums were steeped in little details and sounds that evoked the Fabs indirectly.    

Their debut, Stackridge, is notable today for containing a song entitled “Dora The Female Explorer” that was intended to be the basis for a series of children’s books. Doubtless most people reading this will have some familiarity with the similarly-named television cartoon character (and/or the host of spin-off products) but as far as anyone can tell, the spunky Latina and Stackridge’s creation are related only by coincidence.

That same year, guitarist Andy Cresswell-Davis (sometimes billed as simply ‘Andy Davis’) scored a slot as guest musician on John’s Imagine album, contributing acoustic to “Gimme Some Truth” and “Oh Yoko !”

In 1973, the band scored a coup by securing George Martin to produce their third LP, The Man In The Bowler Hat (released in America as Pinafore Days ). It was their highest-charting U.K. release, while barely scraping into the Top Two Hundred in the states.

After a major re-tooling that saw only two (of six) original members left, Stackridge signed with Elton John’s Rocket Records and released Extravaganza, possibly their most satisfying album, in 1974. Despite the boost of such big-name sponsorship, it too failed to find its commercial niche. A year later, Mr. Mick, a concept album on aging, marked their swan song – for a time. Their rampant Beatle-isms on this release took the form of a reggaefied version of “Hold Me Tight” – one the Fabs’ most undervalued tunes.

Their break-up was announced in 1977. James Warren and Andy Cresswell-Davis soon after formed The Korgis, who in 1980, achieved something Stackridge never did: a U.S. hit single, “Everybody’s Got to Learn Sometime.” By the late 1990s, with the Korgis dissolved and Stackridge history, various groupings of the musicians who’d passed through both bands began reconvening, with a Stackridge live album resulting. In 2006, a CD single appeared under the Korgis’ name entitled “Something About The Beatles.” It’s an apt nod to their collective past and well worth seeking out.   

Do it now.

All material copyright 2010 by Robert Rodriguez. No unauthorized reproduction permitted without the express written permission of the author.

Purchase Fab Four FAQ 2.0: The Beatles' Solo Years, 1970-1980 here. 

No, of course they weren’t the Beatles. But that didn’t stop the spread of the most widespread Beatle conspiracy theory since Paul had died. Just as that rumor got going courtesy of DJ Russ Gibbs, the suggestion that – once again – clues were being planted to convey something important through an album got started by a journalist with the Providence Journal. And as before, Capitol Records did exactly nothing to stop it.

Klaatu’s story begins in the early seventies. Musicians John Woloschuk and Dee Long made an arrangement with producer Terry Brown at Toronto Sound recording studios, where Woloschuk worked, wherein the duo was given a blank check to use the facilities during any downtime between paying clients. Dubbed Klaatu (after Michael Rennie’s character – an interplanetary visitor – in the sci-fi classic, The Day The Earth Stood Still), they released their first single, “Hanus of Uranus,” backed with “Sub-Rosa Subway” on the now-defunct GRT Records in 1973. A second single, “Dr. Marvello” followed, but neither release drew much attention.

Drummer Terry Draper joined in 1974 as the singles continued to flow. Meanwhile, their manager was actively worked on securing a major record deal. By the time he’d made his breakthrough, Klaatu made the fateful decision to, in the name of letting the music do the talking, maintain anonymity. No interviews, no touring, not even the public release of their identities. Of all the labels to have cut a deal with them it was Capitol – the Beatles’ label – that agreed to those terms and inked a contract with Klaatu.

Klaatu was released in August 1976 – hitting the streets almost exactly between the in-store dates of Capitol’s Rock ‘n’ Roll Music compilation and Ringo’s Rotogravure on Atlantic (in Canada and elsewhere, Klaatu’s LP debut was titled 3:47 EST). The album was comprised of remixes of their singles-issued material (although their debut was now re-titled “Anus of Uranus” – nice), plus some new recordings, among them the opening cut, “Calling Occupants” (covered a year later by, of all people, The Carpenters). The album itself was a pleasing mix of psychedelic/progressive pop, featuring layered effects, adroit production, and unmistakable traces of the 1967 Beatles influence. (So too did ELO, though the two bands sounded nothing like each other.)

Lacking anything in the way of a promotional effort from the unnamed individuals comprising the band, Klaatu sank, generating little notice from anyone. The trio flew to England to begin work on their follow-up, entitled Hope, that autumn. But in February the following year – out of nowhere – the album suddenly exploded. Steven Smith, a reporter with the Providence Journal by-lined an article entitled “Could Klaatu Be The Beatles? Mystery is a Magical Mystery Tour.” By releasing an album that lacked explicit songwriting and production credits, as well as the conspicuous absence of any individual names anywhere in the packaging, the band had unwittingly enabled the imaginations of Beatle-starved conspiracy-minded folks to run wild.

On the basis of Smith’s article, plus similar chatter on Hartford, Connecticut radio station WDRC, the rumor that the Beatles had reunited and were calling themselves Klaatu took root and spread like wildfire. Inquiries to Capitol and Klaatu’s management were met with open-ended non-denials that stopped just short of lying. But those attempting to bolster their case were armed with an array of “clues,” each more asinine than the one before it; among them:

1. The album was issued on Capitol, the Beatles’ once and future label.

2. On the cover of Ringo’s Goodnight Vienna album, his face is superimposed over actor Michael Rennie’s in a still from The Day The Earth Stood Still. Rennie, of course, played the character whose extraterrestrial name was Klaatu.

3. The first album (and all that followed) featured an image of the sun on the cover, as if it were Klaatu’s logo. The Egyptian sun god’s name was Ra; reverse the two letters and one is left with A R – the initials of the Fabs’ last recorded album.

4. Abbey Road, of course, featured “Here Comes The Sun” and “Sun King,” so Klaatu’s use would be merely reinforcing an existing motif. The latter tune began with the sound of crickets chirping, as does the Klaatu album – picking up where they left off? 

5. Side one’s closing track, “Sub-Rosa Subway” features the most overtly McCartney-sounding lead vocal. Was the song’s title a play on Paul’s Red Rose Speedway?

6. That same song mentions New York City and Washington D.C., in that order. These were the first two cities that the Beatles had played on American soil.

7. As the above named track’s final seconds play out, a Morse code-like beeping is heard, said by some to translate to some relevant message (along the lines of “It’s us!”).

Fueling the nonsense, some radio stations began dedicating weekends to airing the Klaatu album alongside Beatle material, encouraging listeners to chime in with their opinions, one way or another. Recognizing a good thing when they saw it, Capitol stepped up production of the dead-in-the-water release (while postponing the issue of Hope). They also made a point of disseminating Smith’s article. Within a year of its release, Klaatu had gone from nowhere to selling anywhere between a quarter and half a million copies, all on the strength of a rumor.  

The band itself, just returned from England in early 1977, had heard nothing of the ongoing mythmaking (although New Musical Express had headlined a story on the phenomenon: “Deaf idiot journalist starts Beatle rumour”). Given their bent toward privacy and the desires of their label – having seen their debut resurrected from the dead – Klaatu went about their business and let the story play itself out. This it did, once some enterprising soul went to the trouble of looking up Klaatu’s compositional copyrights at the Library of Congress and saw the names associated with the group, thus bringing the buzz to an end. The whole tawdry tale was summed up by Rolling Stone as “Hype of the Year.”   

All drummed-up hysteria aside, the music itself was hardly an embarrassment. To anyone listening objectively, the Beatleisms were no more than those of any other act that developed in their wake. Possibly the debut’s strongest track, “California Jam ,” bore no obvious Fabness whatsoever (nor - apparently - did it have anything to do with the well-known concert of the time bearing the same name) . But by the time Hope was issued in the fall of 1977, the brand had been damaged. Despite near-universal glowing reviews, a backlash against the band resulted in poor sales.

Klaatu went on to issue two more Capitol albums: Sir Army Suit in 1978, followed by Endangered Species in 1980. Their swan song, Magentalane, was released in Canada in 1981. For their final LP, their images were at last included on the jacket; also, the band followed its release with their first ever tour. By now, Klaatu was solidly a niche act – perhaps where they should have been in the first place. Their shows received positive reviews, but perhaps weary of the ups and downs, they called it quits not long after. As a final footnote, a one-off reunion in 1988 generated one new tune: utilizing a title already used by both Paul (in 1966) and John (in 1980), the song was called “Woman.”

All material copyright 2010 by Robert Rodriguez. No unauthorized reproduction permitted without the express written permission of the author.

Purchase Fab Four FAQ 2.0: The Beatles' Solo Years, 1970-1980 here.  

Like members of the Raspberries, Big Star, Cheap Trick, and many other acts that came to fruition in the 1970s, Pennsylvania-born multi-instrumentalist Todd Rundgren cut his teeth on the music of the Beatles and other British Invasion acts. By the time he launched his first viable band, The Nazz , in 1967, he was one of dozens of other similarly coiffed and costumed American acts, sporting matching suits and playing a type of catchy pop that seemed a step behind the times. But Rundgren persevered in the wake of his band’s dissolution, scoring a minor hit in 1970 (as “Runt”) with “We Gotta Get You A Woman .”

 

In 1972, he produced his masterpiece, the double album Something/Anything?, a mostly one-man-band affair that included the hits “I Saw The Light” and a re-make of The Nazz’ “Hello, It’s Me .” A thoroughly capable pop tunesmith, the album also showcased his more progressive tendencies, which would become more pronounced in albums to come. Rundgren also doubled as a rather prolific producer. Notable albums included Badfinger’s Straight Up  (he was brought in to complete the work George had started but had to abandon in the wake of the Bangladesh crisis); Grand Funk’s We’re An American Band ; and the 1973 debut of the New York Dolls .
 

 

In September 1974, he gave an interview to Melody Maker in the wake of his impenetrable two-record set, Todd. An album earlier though, 1973’s A Wizard, A True Star, contained a song apparently directed at Lennon entitled “Rock and Roll Pussy,” questioning his revolutionary rhetoric. (“Will you get your nails dirty? Or are you only just a rock and roll pussy?”) The interview seemingly picked up where the song left off, as Rundgren spewed, “John Lennon ain’t no revolutionary. He’s a fucking idiot, man…Hitting a waitress in the Troubadour – what kind of revolution is that?” 
  

 

Rundgren’s inflated sense of self was manifest in the text that followed, as he bloviated upon his own career and philosophy while being casually dismissive of the Fabs. “(They) had no style other than being the Beatles.” His own group, the Nazz, in comparison “…used to do, like, heavy rock , and also these light pretty ballads …at the time that was something that people just didn’t do.” His pontifications were not limited to his past or music in general; they also extended into The State Of The World. “Like, there are islands of truth in a sea of falsehood…” What then to do? “The truth is out there. I believe it’s my responsibility to stand by it, and not be a pussy.”

Given such a personal assault on both his politics and his former group, which despite everything, he was protective of until the day he died, John was duty-bound to respond. In contrast to his response to the innocent query from Thomas Bonifield three years earlier, the 1974 John was much more laid back and at peace. Despite everything ongoing at the time, including his separation and the immigration battle, he was willing to engage Rundgren point by point with humor in Melody Maker without resorting to equal venom.
 

 

“AN OPENED LETTUCE TO SODD RUNTLESTUNTLE. (from dr. Winston o’boogie),” it began. “Couldn’t resist adding a few ‘islands of truth’ of my own, in response to Turd Runtgreen’s howl of hate (pain).” He first pointed out that he admired some of his work, including “I Saw The Light ,” which he noted, “is not unlike ‘There’s A Place’ (Beatles), melody wise.” He took issue with Rundgren’s characterization of him as a self-proclaimed revolutionary but left the politics at that. More gnawing was the charge of assaulting a waitress, which he denied while admitting he was “…an ass, I was too drunk. So shoot me!”

 

John couldn’t resist psychoanalyzing his quarry. “It sounds like I represented something to you…your dad perhaps?” But pride in his former band’s work was never far from his mind. “So the Nazz use (sic) to do ‘like heavy rock’ then SUDDENLY a ‘light pretty ballad.’ How original!...Which gets me to the Beatles, ‘who had no other style than being the Beatles’!! That covers a lot of style man, including your own…”  The letter ended on a note of kindness. “Anyway, however much you hurt me darling; I’ll always love you.”

Rundgren’s return to sanity was splashed in the magazine about a month later. To his credit, he accepted fault for his harsh words and humbly acknowledged that in the name of “a little honest communication,” he’d gone too far. “I would like to extend my apologies to John Lennon for the extreme nature of my remarks. I am often reputed to be over critical, and my comments do not reflect my personal respect for him.” A follow-up phone call smoothed things over; John remained a fan and as far as whatever sparked Rundgren’s bile in the first place goes, his deep feeling for the Beatles manifested itself almost continually from that time onward.

 

Two years later, Rundgren released an album entitled Faithful, which indeed featured a half dozen 1960s classics – reproduced “faithfully” – from bands that had influenced Rundgren’s career. Included were two Beatles’ tracks (and Lennon compositions at that): “Rain” and “Strawberry Fields Forever .” The Fab fixation did not end there; in 1980, his band Utopia released Deface The Music, a Rutles-like regurgitation of Beatle-style music. All the eras are represented: from the Merseybeat of “I Just Want To Touch You ” to the Revolver-like “Life Goes On” or psychedelic “Hoi Polloi.”

 

In 1992, Rundgren toured as part of Ringo’s All-Starr Band; this was followed nine years later by a road show that featured Heart’s Ann Wilson, The Who’s John Entwistle, and former Beatle engineer Alan Parsons. They called themselves A Walk Down Abbey Road; a highlight was his stunning take on George’s “While My Guitar Gently Weeps.”

All material copyright 2010 by Robert Rodriguez. No unauthorized reproduction permitted without the express written permission of the author.

Purchase Fab Four FAQ 2.0: The Beatles' Solo Years, 1970-1980 here.

George was a very busy man in the winter and spring of 1970. He began the year laying the Beatles to rest, recording his own “I Me Mine” for the band’s swan song. Not long after, he assisted John on “Instant Karma” and Ringo on “It Don’t Come Easy.” In between, he maintained his studio tan with Apple projects centering on Doris Troy, Billy, and Jackie. In April, two weeks after Paul broke it to the world – roughly – that the Fabs were history, George headed to New York City, visiting Allen Klein’s digs on Broadway.

While in town, he took the opportunity to drop in on buddy Bob Dylan, who was preparing to work on what became New Morning (which itself followed closely on the heels of the soon-to-be-issued Self-Portrait, a double album of covers universally judged to be his worst album ever). The two met up at the end of the month and jammed a bit; on Friday, May 1, 1970, they convened at Columbia Studio B. There, with country legend-to-be Charlie Daniels on bass, Russ Kunkel on drums, and Bob Johnston producing (and occasionally playing piano), the ensemble set about lying down tracks.

George and Bob had already collaborated on the writing of  “I’d Have You Anytime,” the eventual lead-off track to All Things Must Pass (which would commence recording later that month in London); further, Bob’s “If Not For You” would also end up on both men’s next LP releases. But on this day, only the latter song was attempted: it marks the earliest documented example of George playing what quickly became his trademark, slide guitar. Though Bob would re-record the track later for release on New Morning (replicating George’s part in the arrangement), this day’s take was eventually released on The Bootleg Series Volumes 1-3 in 1991.

The sessions were broken into two parts: the first being something of a hootenanny, with a variety of songs tried on, if just for a laugh, before the evening session’s more serious efforts. A rich assortment of tunes were attempted, several of which ended up on New Morning, though nearly all were re-recorded later. (One that wasn’t was the day’s take of “Went To See The Gypsy” – though uncredited, George’s lead guitar at the song’s finish is unmistakable.) Some familiar Dylan compositions were run through also, including “Don’t Think Twice, It’s Alright,” “Just Like Tom Thumb’s Blues,” and “Mama, You Been On My Mind” – that last song is notable to Beatle fans for George’s stirring, much-bootlegged performance of it during the Let It Be sessions over a year before.

Both Britain’s New Musical Express and Rolling Stone reported on the session, though their coverage was not entirely accurate. It suggested that the two were making an album together, further claiming that several Beatle songs were performed; actually, only “Yesterday” was and only as something of a joke (George facetiously suggested adding cellos after the performance ended). But some early rock and roll cuts were, including “Da Doo Ron Ron,”  “All I Have To Do Is Dream,” and Carl Perkins’ “Your True Love.”

While few of these recordings rise to the level of what’s typically considered releasable quality (think Let It Be sessions in pristine sound), it is for their historic value that a full-length album issue would be fascinating. They show a comfort level and camaraderie unimaginable in a Beatle setting. The atmosphere is lighthearted (Charlie Daniels later noted that Dylan “was in a good mood that day”) and loose; on the eve of recording his magnum opus, George is heard as confident and firing on all cylinders in a relaxed setting. Given the rapport displayed on this day, the real wonder isn’t that the Traveling Wilburys happened so much as that they didn’t happen sooner.

All material copyright 2010 by Robert Rodriguez. No unauthorized reproduction permitted without the express written permission of the author.

Purchase Fab Four FAQ 2.0: The Beatles' Solo Years, 1970-1980 here.

The unceasing public clamor for a Beatle reunion in the wake of their break-up was matched only by the demand for new Fab product – any product. During the 1970s, there were only two officially sanctioned releases of heretofore unheard-in-public Beatle recordings: the Live! At TheStar-Club set in 1977, and Hollywood Bowl concert, issued that same year. Though EMI was game for repackaging already-issued material in as many ways as possible,fans throughout the decade had to look elsewhere to find the good stuff in this pre-Anthology era.

Enter the bootleggers. Underground entrepreneurs did a brisk business among the fan base with a series of records that became increasingly more polished over time. Featuring both desirable material as well as an increased sophistication in packaging, labels such as “Tobe Milo,” “Ruthless Rhymes ,” and “Melvin” fed the ever-increasing demand.

Given the lawless nature of their industry, some albums came disguised as “imported” product, bearing all the earmarks of legitimate overseas issues (while featuring false addresses to thwart any nosy law enforcers that might be probing too deeply). So it was – then as now – that the hardcore aficionados were satiated in their pursuit of anything of value caught on tape concerning the Fabs that was impossible to obtain through lawful channels.

Today, it was reported that Yoko Ono has scored her second Billboard Dance Chart number one, for the Morel re-mix of Double Fantasy's "Give Me Something."  The following profile was written for a chapter of  Fab Four FAQ 2.0 entitled  I Hope Someday You Join Us: Acts Mentored By The Ex-Beatles; it wasn't used in the book. As such, it covers the same era as the book, 1970-1980. 

Regrettably, I could not find sound files/videos for every track that I wanted to, but I would suggest that anyone interested in hearing them go to Amazon and check out the thirty second sample tracks available for a taste of what is being described.

YOKO ONO
Just as it’s a mistake to fall into the “Yoko broke up the Beatles” mindset (the truth is far more complex than that; does anyone really believe that they would’ve stayed together if only John hadn’t met her?), so it is unwise to paint her work with a broad brush and dismiss it out of hand as talentless noise. Her’s is an acquired taste (like, say, Frank Zappa is) and therefore, has its devoted fans among those whose preferences run to the experimental.
 
Though Yoko released four Apple A-side singles, she really wasn’t competing with Top Forty acts and one shouldn’t judge her work within the pop paradigm. That said, John’s own insistence that they were artistic equals and that Yoko’s music was on par with any other rock pioneer (“Listen to ‘Don’t Worry Kyoko.’ It’s one of the fuckin’ best rock and roll records ever made.”) undoubtedly further hurt her public standing. With an arrogance that bordered on zealotry (“It’s as important as anything we ever did”), he unwittingly invited pushback and may have turned off that tiny segment of the audience who might otherwise have given her a chance.
 

Not counting the trio of experimental long players (Two Virgins; Life With The Lions; Wedding Album) or the concert recording (Live Peace in Toronto) released during the Beatles’ lifetime; nor the pair of joint credited albums (Some Time In New York City; Double Fantasy) issued subsequently, Yoko Ono was responsible for four solo releases: two single and two double albums. (Another collection, A Story, was recorded in 1974 but remained unissued for another twenty years – possibly because Apple was in its death throes as an active label at the time.)

For her solo debut, Yoko unleashed – in tandem with John’s Plastic Ono Band – an avant garde tour de force. Recorded with instrumental support from Klaus, Ringo, and her husband, Yoko Ono / Plastic Ono Band was a wordless affair containing the archetypical Yoko repertoire of wails, warbles, and other unsettling noises not ordinarily associated with a non-institutionalized human being. YO / POB delivered what John’s album only hinted at: a cathartic unleashing of pent-up anguish that transcended mere speech, bolstered (if not unlocked) by the treatment of Dr. Arthur Janov. Indeed, at one point, John’s release was to be titled Primal and Yoko’s, Scream before the two thought better of it.

It should be noted that, just as John’s screaming on record in the years before he met the good doctor was inspired directly from rockers like Little Richard, Yoko’s vocal style had precedent that she herself acknowledged. Jazz vocalist Patty Waters released an album in 1966 that featured a thirteen-minute work out of the Appalachian chestnut, “Black Is The Color Of My True Love’s Hair.” The recording resembles nothing so much as a tortured exorcism, featuring the word “black” shrieked and moaned in a variety of ways, presaging Yoko’s similar excursions found on Live Peace In Toronto’s second side.
 

For those not yet convinced of her musical bona fides, the album contains one cut recorded separately from the rest of the sessions: “AOS,” a collaboration with free jazz legend Ornette Coleman, recorded in February 1968 (around the same time John was getting a handle on “Across The Universe.”) Other tracks are augmented with found sounds, such as a train (“Paper Shoes”) and a falling tree (“Touch Me”). But most notable are the musical performances: Ringo’s playing is suitably intense, while John – never much noted for possessing a distinctive guitar voice – is incendiary. Well aware of his shortcomings as an instrumentalist, on YO / POB, John displayed an inventiveness unheard of again until his work on Yoko’s “Walking On Thin Ice” ten years later.

Fly was a double album, released alongside Imagine in September 1971. In addition to featuring the cast from her prior release, she added Joe Jones and the Tone Deaf Music Co. This ensemble, part of New York’s conceptual art community, specialized in producing sounds from “self-playing” instruments. Fly represented a step toward traditional rock values, featuring some cuts that displayed conventional compositional motifs. “Midsummer New York,” the album’s boogie opener, would not have sounded out of place coming from any of the quirky female artists that populated the so-called New Wave scene of the late seventies. Another track, “Mrs. Lennon,” is a piano-based ballad featuring atmospheric production and an increasingly idiosyncratic turn-of-the-phrase (“Husband John extended his hand…and suddenly he finds that he has no hands.”)

Indeed, it would be attempts at wedding her unique lyricism to a steadily more traditional pop/rock setting that defined Yoko’s next release. Backed by Elephant’s Memory, 1973’s Approximately Infinite Universe built upon her Some Time In New York City political screeds, but to more focused – and ultimately, more satisfying – results. “Move On Fast” rocks convincingly, while the ballad “I Want My Love To Rest Tonight” admonishes her feminist sisters not to judge their men too harshly. Though the release as a whole demonstrated a real breakthrough in terms of crafting meaningful yet mainstream material, aficionados of her earlier work were less impressed with her “selling out.”

Credited to “Yoko Ono with the Plastic Ono Band + Something Different,” 1973’s Feeling The Space represented the culmination of her pop studies to this point. Pared down to a single disc, the album – an exploration of feminist themes – demonstrated a grasp of contemporary sounds that occasionally outdid her husband’s.  FTS featured a superb supporting cast (though John’s participation was minimal), comprised of the same musicians on the concurrent Mind Games album, augmented by the Something Different Chorus. (The album’s playful packaging provided the “measurements” and phone numbers of all the male musicians – ‘cepting John’s, which was given as “not for sale.”)

The anthemic “Woman Power” saw canny but fruitless issue as a U.S. single, though FTS contained several candidates for chart success, including “Run Run Run” (which was released in the U.K.) and “Coffin Car.” The penultimate non-Beatle Apple release hit the stores just as the couple was separating. Yoko stayed musically active in the interim, touring and recording A Story, which contained several songs that were revisited later. After John and Yoko reconciled, she put aside her musical career to concentrate first on her pregnancy, then business.      

Upon the fabled re-awakening of John’s muse in 1980, Yoko assembled a collection of her own demos to round out the release. Jack Douglas, who had worked with the both of them, recognized early on that he would need to keep the couple separated in order to get anything done. To that end, the producer established a procedure where Yoko’s cuts were recorded early in the day and John’s later, so he could minimize their actual overlapping time in the studio.

Double Fantasy generated the finest reviews of Yoko’s career. Indeed, to many critics, John’s sound was old hat, while her tracks possessed a freshness and energy that competed with the best of the current scene. It appeared that the world and Yoko had met each other halfway, as tunes like “Kiss Kiss Kiss” and “Give Me Something” began getting spun in clubs. (Quite a contrast to the art snob who harangued John over the Beatles’ use of simple beats back in the day.)

Their collaborative culmination came with a song held off the release: a powerfully haunting (yet über-danceable) track entitled “Walking On Thin Ice.” Powered by some elastic guitar work (inspired by, of all things, a minor 1956 hit by Sanford Clark called “The Fool”) from John and Earl Slick, the song was the ultimate encapsulation of Yoko’s singular vocalese, fused to a hypnotic piano line, insistent disco rhythm and produced with a hard rock sensibility.

"Walking On Thin Ice" was fully expected to be the song to at last bring Yoko out of her husband’s shadow as a recording artist. A 12” EP entitled Yoko Only would present the new track alongside the once-controversial “Open Your Box,” plus a pair of other club-friendly recordings. John himself predicted “I think we’ve just got your first number one, Yoko.” It took another twenty-three years and a remix to make his forecast come true, but it did – on the U.S. Dance charts. (The then-seventy year-old set a record as the oldest artist to score a chart-topper.)

All material copyright 2010 by Robert Rodriguez. No unauthorized reproduction permitted without the express written permission of the author.

Purchase Fab Four FAQ 2.0: The Beatles' Solo Years, 1970-1980 here.  
   

Back in the day, when hit singles were the currency of the recording industry, giving little thought to the back of the “plug” side was the rule, rather than the exception. Several artists came along to buck that practice: the Everly Brothers (and later, the Beach Boys), who favored backing an uptempo song with a ballad; Buddy Holly, whose second-tier material was typically as strong as the hit side; and the Beatles, who aggressively challenged radio station programmers with 45s of equal value on either side. (Until the mid-seventies, record industry bible Billboard magazine would place B-sides receiving airplay alongside A-sides within their Hot One Hundred.)

As the record business evolved, while a hit single was still something to strive for, the B-sides became (when not used as samplers for the parent album) a venue for artists to issue more experimental material, or songs that might not have fit onto the album release. For the ex-Fabs, who tended to be prolific in their recording habits, only rarely was the flip side of a hit used as a dumping ground for uninspired material.      

The following list is notable for a couple of reasons. First, it demonstrates that the former Beatles adhered strictly to the aforementioned formulas when selecting flipside material, while adding another: the occasional flips that were better than the A-side, but were for some reason, undervalued by their creators. Though historically radio programmers exercised their option to decide which side of a release warranted airplay, this practice had essentially ended by the seventies, therefore leaving it to others in hindsight to point out the occasional flawed artistic judgment.

The glimpse into the artist’s heads that this roll call affords us is noteworthy for another reason: though most of these songs live on as bonus material tacked onto standard CD issues, the artists themselves chose to release these tracks via the transient media of the 45 record, with the apparent intent that they would one day vanish. Viewed through that prism, the selection of certain tunes is fascinating.   

NOTE: Audio/visual is hyperlinked as a click-through for each title. Because I care, y'see.

 

“COOCHY-COOCHY” B-SIDE TO “BEAUCOUPS OF BLUES” - RELEASED OCTOBER 5, 1970

The Beaucoups Of Blues sessions were possibly the most efficiently run that Ringo had participated in since the recording of the Please Please Me album seven years earlier. The Ringed One had, over the course of one week, selected songs, rehearsed them, and laid down an LP’s worth of vocals, completing an album in less time than the Fabs had since their debut. (Arguably, Paul would pull off the same trick a year later with Wild Life, but with far less convincing results.)

Unique among the material committed to tape was this, Ringo’s third recorded sole-credited composition. (The “It Don’t Come Easy” / “Early 1970” single had been cut but remained unissued.) While all the tracks that made it to the album were authored by seasoned Nashville pros, Ringo’s sole original was relegated to the sole single’s B-side.

It’s unlikely that anyone questioned whether he had any help with the tune, bereft as it was of any Harrisonian passing chords or elaborate motifs. That said, “Coochy Coochy” was no embarrassment, being a rather standard “What’d I Say” cum country workout elevated by the peerless musicianship of the parties involved. Lyrically, the sentiments rang true, as an older but wiser Ringo observed in the aftermath of the Beatle years: “I’ve traveled all over…I've got everything that I ever wanted, done everything I ever wanted to do.”

Of course, as the A-side proved a disappointment on the charts, it would only be the hard-core Beatlephiles that ever heard “Coochy Coochy.” Only through the advent of the compact disc was the track rescued from certain obscurity, as a bonus alongside an edit of “Nashville Jam” on the Beaucoups of Blues reissue. 

   

“OH WOMAN, OH WHY” B-SIDE TO “ANOTHER DAY” - RELEASED FEBRUARY 28, 1971

Recorded with the basic Ram crew of Denny Seiwell on drums and David Spinozza on guitar, this rather bizarre, atypical (for McCartney) blooze track began life exactly as one might have expected: as a studio jam that grew legs and became fleshed out. Burdened with a rather unwieldy title, “Oh Woman Oh Why” comes off as a custom-recorded make-weight, designed to fill B-side space and nothing more.

Little about the song merits repeat listenings. Bearing a thematic resemblance to tunes like “Hey Joe” or Neil Young’s “Down By The River,” Macca waxes anguished about his “woman” and “that gun” in a manner most comparable to “Why Don’t We Do It In The Road?,” lacking only the wit and melodic sensibility of that recording. As if to underscore the gravity of the premise, the recording is punctuated by seven (simulated?) gunshots.

Given his intensely prolific songwriting, his well-documented workaholic tendencies (no McCartney album session from 1971 on ended without surplus tunes in the can), and his well-honed sense of presentation, it seems rather odd that Paul would have deliberately squandered the flipside of his debut solo single on this. To look for the positive, the guitars do crank grittily and Seiwell’s drums do provide some power. Paul never committed a half-hearted vocal to vinyl ever, so the raw ingredients for something special are there. The song simply lacks the basic appeal of what listeners expect from a record bearing his name: a well-defined melody and/or some halfway decent hooks.

Interestingly, the song was finally given a second life on CD, not attached to Ram, as might be expected, but to Wild Life, a collection predestined for obscurity. All in all, a sound decision.

 

"DEEP BLUE” B-SIDE TO “(WE’VE GOT TO RELIEVE) BANGLA DESH” - RELEASED JULY 28, 1971

Between the majesty of All Things Must Pass and the more subdued approach to his spirituality on Living In The Material World lies “Deep Blue,” a song penned by George as he watched his mother battle her final illness. This musical “orphan” reflected upon the helplessness felt by those watching their loved ones suffer and their inability to mitigate the pain.

The song was rare excursion into folk-blues, informed by George’s friendship with Dylan and subsequent proximity to multi-instrumentalist David Bromberg (whom George would record with the following year). Accompanied only with the barest of backings (Klaus on bass and Keltner on drums), George augmented his acoustic guitar parts with overdubbed Dobro, a twangy instrument he’d just recently used to good effect on John’s “Crippled Inside.”

Production-wise, the tune marked a startlingly stark contrast to Phil Spector’s approach on George’s previous work. The plaintive song, sad without being self-pitying, would’ve made a superb addition to a timely follow-up album to ATMP – had there been one. Alas, not until summer 1973 would a full-blown set of new Harrisongs materialize (pun not intended), by which time “Deep Blue” was nearly two years old. The song was duly issued as the flip to the topical “Bangla-Desh” but once its purpose in alerting the masses to the title crisis passed, so too did the B-side.

But the song it was not without admirers, among them Warner Brothers record producer Ted Templeman. During a pre-production meeting for what became George’s 1979 self-titled release, Templeman expressed to George his admiration of the rather obscure track. Obligingly, George composed “Soft-Hearted Hana” (after Temperance Seven’s 1961 recording of the 1924 hit, “Hard-Hearted Hannah”) with similar musical chordings. Rather than a direct evocation of his earlier song’s downbeat theme, “Hana” is a rather direct description of a “magic mushroom” trip that George had taken in Maui.

Eventually, “Deep Blue” was tacked onto the 2006 reissue of Living In The Material World. Oddly, its former A-side remains unissued in remastered form.       

“BLINDMAN” B-SIDE TO “BACK OFF BOOGALOO” - RELEASED MARCH 20, 1972

Perhaps feeling a bit inspired by his turn in the spotlight at the Concert for Bangladesh two weeks earlier, Ringo booked time at Apple Studios, accompanied by Klaus Voormann and Badfinger’s Pete Ham. With him he brought a self-penned tune that he hoped would work for the soundtrack of the film he’d just completed work on, Ferdinando Baldi’s Blindman.

Lacking input from George, Ringo’s song (also titled “Blindman”) was in desperate need of some skilled hands to shape it into something memorable. While there were some rudimentary attempts at delivering the appropriate spaghetti western motifs, the lyrics, sung barely above a monotone, essentially laid out the film’s plotline: “You made a promise, you would get them through. The girls to the miners, you would fix them, too.”

Not for no reason was the song nixed by the film’s producers, therein ending Ringo’s dreams of supplying the entire soundtrack. Little more than a curiosity, the song lives on as an addition to the Goodnight Vienna CD. 

 

“LITTLE WOMAN LOVE” B-SIDE TO “MARY HAD A LITTLE LAMB” RELEASED MAY 29, 1972

As Exhibit “A” in making the case that Paul was often not the best judge of his own material, consider this: subsuming a bouncy little piano-based groove in favor of a shopworn nursery rhyme, arranged in a way that would give a 5 year-old the blues. That, folks, was exactly what Paul did with Wings’ second single release, a recording that must have had newly-installed guitarist Henry McCullough wondering exactly what he had gotten himself into. (“[It] wasn’t the bluesiest of records,” was his diplomatic take.) 

Coming off the heels of the most politically incendiary song he’d ever recorded (or ever would again) –  “Give Ireland Back To The Irish” – there were many that felt that “Mary Had A Little Lamb” was a deliberate poke in the eye to the Establishment that had kept the former single off the BBC’s airwaves, as if to say “Ban this!” But this Paul has coyly denied, instead insisting that he was merely committing to tape something for the kids – his own as much as anyone else’s (wink-wink).

“Little Woman Love” – despite the title, not an expression of admiration for the work of Louisa May Alcott – was yet another Ram leftover. Unique among the songs he cut at New York’s Columbia Recording Studios was the appearance of a guest, jazz legend Milt “The Judge” Hinton. Mr. Hinton’s career as a stand-up bassist went back to the dawn of the jazz era itself, where he played alongside the greats, notably Cab Calloway. Through lucky happenstance, he found himself pulled into the session, laying down a memorable bass break (at one minute in) before adding an ex-Beatle to his innumerable credits.

As for the song itself, it did receive some airtime during the James Paul McCartney television special in 1973. But without the benefit of a slot on an LP to give it some permanency, the record all but vanished. In time, “Little Woman Love” became a bonus track on the Red Rose Speedway CD reissue, thereby ensuring its long term invisibility.

 

“THE MESS” B-SIDE TO “MY LOVE” - RELEASED APRIL 9, 1973

In August 1972, Wings resumed their tour of Europe, which had begun in France one month earlier. This second leg took them through Scandinavia as well as The Netherlands and what was known then as West Germany. Three nights before the tour concluded, the group’s performance at The Hague was professionally filmed and recorded with an eye toward possible documentary or album use.

Of the live set, the only track to appear as a legitimate release was an original tune entitled “The Mess,” an uncharacteristic piece of boogie (featuring a chorus that roughly resembled The Band’s “The Shape I’m In”). While as a performance piece, the song worked well enough, with some superb lead work from Henry, ensemble harmonies, and even some unison riffing from the guitarists AND Linda, it really didn’t rise to the level of a memorable composition, least of all coming from someone with Paul’s track record.

What the recording did do was successfully showcase the band’s progress from nowhere not that long before into a viable stage act – no small feat. In edited form, the song was issued as the flip to “My Love,” giving the single release some balance. Back when Red Rose Speedway was being mapped out as a double album, “The Mess” would surely have made the cut. But in its single disc form, the live track was dropped, and not until the CD issue was it finally added to the package.

Like “Little Woman Love,” “The Mess” was featured in Paul’s TV special, airing exactly one week after the “My Love” single was released.   

 

“MISS O’DELL” B-SIDE TO “GIVE ME LOVE (GIVE ME PEACE ON EARTH)” - RELEASED MAY 7, 1973

Born in Muncie, Indiana, Chris O’Dell grew up in Tucson, Arizona (of “Get Back” fame) before taking entry-level work in the record industry in Los Angeles. The time was the late sixties, and her sojourn soon put her into the orbit of Derek Taylor. As Apple was starting up, she accepted Taylor’s request to relocate to London, where she settled in as A&R head Peter Asher’s personal assistant, just in time to witness the Fabs at work on the “White album.”

No relation to Dennis (of “You Know My Name” fame), she survived the Allen Klein takeover long enough to become close friends with Pattie Harrison before segueing into work for the Rolling Stones. (Her image can be seen in the Exile On Main Street album cover collage.) In any event, she made enough of an impression on George to become the springboard for this serendipitously merry yet Dylan-esque recording. 

“Miss O’Dell” takes the form of a tongue-in-cheek communiqué from a jaded rock star adrift in L.A. Very much akin to a rough-hewn version of “Apple Scruffs,” the acoustic guitar-and-harmonica driven tune bespeaks the weariness George’s lot had become. “The smog that keeps polluting up our shores,” he sings “is boring me to tears – why don’t you call me, Miss O’Dell?”

Where the recording gets really interesting is when George, during the second verse, mis-reads his own lyrics, substituting “rice” for “night” on the line “the night that keeps rolling on right up to my front porch.” Laughter at the incongruity of such a visual ensues, as he thereupon succumbs to a fit of the giggles. He audibly struggles to maintain a straight face as he proceeds onward but to no avail. By the end of the take, levity has won; no longer in control of himself, George breaks down completely before calling out Paul’s Forthlin Road telephone number (Garston 6922) as the tune ends.

Another take, minus the mirth, was recorded (and has since shown up on bootlegs) but it was the comic performance that George chose to issue.  It made for a startling contrast to the earnest pleading on the single’s A-side, but nonetheless exists as quite the gift to his fans. Through the advent of the CD, the song has since been rescued from oblivion – in re-mastered form – on the Living In The Material World reissue.

As for Chris O’Dell, her memoir was recently published.

 

“I LIE AROUND” B-SIDE TO “LIVE AND LET DIE” - RELEASED JUNE 18, 1973

Though he’d been a charter member of Wings from day one and would become their mainstay until the bitter end, it wasn’t until nearly two years into his employ that Denny Laine was accorded the public release of a lead vocal. (An original Laine composition, “I Would Only Smile,” was recorded by Wings during the Red Rose Speedway sessions but sat unreleased until he put it out himself on the Japanese Tears album years later.)

“I Lie Around,” though, was a McCartney song, and a rather unfinished sounding one at that. It begins with a field recording of idyllic outdoor fun, giving way to piano pounding out beneath a repeat of the song’s title, mantra-like, shifting into something recognizable as a verse. Laine’s voice is perfectly suited to the narrative, describing drifting through life at the mercy of external forces: a fairly apt summary of his Wings tenure.

That this song in particular was chosen to back the sweet bombast of “Live And Let Die” displays either complete indifference to complementing the content of the A-side or a subtle attempt at contrast. In either case, the song exists today as one of Red Rose Speedway’s bonus CD tracks, a curiosity worth hearing once if at all.

 

“DOWN AND OUT” B-SIDE TO “PHOTOGRAPH” - RELEASED SEPTEMBER 24, 1973

A song credited solely to Ringo (well, Richard Starkey actually), this brisk three-chord workout has nothing to say, but says it well. Complemented with some tasty horns and driving piano, it would’ve fit quite well on the Ringo album, but was instead dumped onto the back of Ringo’s first number one hit single, “Photograph.”

The track apparently features George on guitar, given his signature sound. What is intriguing is Ringo’s call out of “Alright, Gary” before the break. No one named Gary is credited anywhere on the album, and while the exclamation suggests he’s addressing the keyboard player, the identity is a mystery. Might it have been ex-Spooky Tooth/future “Dream Weaver” Gary Wright, whom Ringo would have known by then from their work on All Things Must Pass? Or could it have been Gary Brooker from Procol Harum, who likewise contributed keys to ATMP?

The likeliest answer is “none of the above.” Appearing on Ringo was New Orleans-born pianist James Booker. All but unknown to the public at large, Booker was a legend in his hometown and a giant to piano aficionados. Mastering every style from classical (said his friend Allen Toussaint, “At 12 years old, he could sit down and play Bach's three-part inventions…with all the sophistication that Bach would have been proud of.”) to boogie woogie and blues, Booker made a name for himself ghosting parts for Fats Domino and impersonating Huey “Piano” Smith (who hated touring) on the road. Additionally, he personally schooled future legends like Mac “Dr. John” Rebennack and Harry Connick Jr. (who merely stated the obvious when he called his mentor “a genius”).

There was a dark side to Booker’s legend. A childhood accident that nearly killed him left him with an addiction to painkillers that eventually did. (Under mysterious circumstances, he later lost an eye.) The son of a Baptist minister, Booker was a homosexual who may also have suffered from a bipolar disorder. For most of his adult years through his death at 43, he battled a heroin addiction, for which he did time. Still, he never lacked for work, recording with everyone from Lionel Hampton and Irma Thomas to the Doobie Brothers and Jerry Garcia.

He’s officially credited on Ringo for one track only, Randy Newman’s “Have You Seen My Baby.” But it is entirely likely that when Ringo called out “Alright, Gary” on “Down and Out,” he was merely playing off of the resemblance of the pianist’s last name to the organist on “A Whiter Shade of Pale.”

“Down and Out,” an enjoyable if not earth-shattering composition, has been restored to prominence on the compact disc edition of Ringo.

 

“COUNTRY DREAMER” B-SIDE TO “HELEN WHEELS” - RELEASED NOVEMBER 12, 1973

One of the Red Rose Speedway outtakes foolishly left in the can was this pleasing countrified pastiche, replete with charming pedal steel picking from Henry. “Country Dreamer” was a catchy little number that could very easily been an A-side, had Macca wanted to create some “country music for people who don’t like country music.” That is to say, its inherent appeal makes any criticism seem callous.

Recorded in October 1972, the song was resurrected a year later to back what had been intended as a stand-alone single. In America, Capitol execs, skeptical as to Paul’s as-yet undemonstrated capacity for producing a blockbuster, arm-twisted him into adding “Helen Wheels” to the Band On The Run album, if only in the States, as a way to boost sales.

“Country Dreamer” represented the latest in a line of pastoral airs running back at least as far as “Mother Nature’s Son” and including “Heart of the Country” from Ram. By now calling his Scottish farm home (in large part), the inspirational qualities of his bucolic lifestyle readily lent themselves to translation in musical terms. 

The recording demonstrates that in less than a year after Henry McCullough joined, Wings had jelled into quite a solid little band, adept at straight ahead rock as they were at genre exercises like this one. It is odd that a number as solid as this one was cut from what originally had been intended as a double album in favor of often inferior material, but such was the lack of self-discernment that plagued Macca throughout his solo years. His absence of a John Lennon to act as a sounding board was evidenced over and again.

The track was duly added to the CD iteration of Red Rose Speedway, but escaped attention on subsequent compilations, most conspicuously on Wingspan, where it surely earned a place.

 

“ZOO GANG” B-SIDE TO “BAND ON THE RUN” (NON-U.S.) - RELEASED JUNE 28, 1974

Produced by Sir Lew Grade’s ATV, The Zoo Gang premiered on British television in April 1974. The limited run series (six episodes), somewhat akin to NBC’s The A Team in the 1980s, featured an ensemble of  “troubleshooters,” known by their World War II animal code names (hence the title), out to right wrongs and settle scores in contemporary France. The series featured several familiar stars, including Brian Keith, Barry Morse, and John Mills.

Sir Lew commissioned Paul to compose and record the series’ theme song. Just as Band On The Run was being released, Wings headed to Paris to the same Pathé Marconi studio where Paul had cut “Can’t Buy Me Love” nearly ten years before. Tasked to lay down some Suzy and the Red Stripes tracks, they managed to squeeze in work on the show’s two-minute opening as well.

The song’s searing, hypnotic lead guitar riff came courtesy of Jimmy McCulloch – not yet an official member of Wings. For that touch of  Parisian je ne sais quoi (not to mention savoir-faire), the track also featured a touch of accordion, doubtless played by Paul himself. Along for the ride was drummer Davey Lutton, who came thisclose to joining the band before accepting an offer from T. Rex.

“Zoo Gang” was issued in England as the flip to Wings’ current album’s title cut, nearly two months after the series had left the air. In America, where the instrumental would have meant nothing, it was passed over in favor of “Nineteen Hundred and Eighty-Five.” Not until the CD issue of Venus And Mars in 1993 was the song given a proper airing in the States.

 

“SALLY G” B-SIDE TO JUNIOR’S FARM” - RELEASED NOVEMBER 11, 1974

Wings Mark III (or IV) spent a productive July 1974 in Nashville, cutting a pair of tunes (as well as the requisite not-to-be-released-anytime-soon Denny Laine song, “Send Me The Heart”) that would – as a single – debut the new line-up. “Junior’s Farm” marked an excellent start to Jimmy McCulloch’s tenure in the band, but “Sally G,” the country-fried flipside, was an equally strong track, marking the most accomplished stab at the genre Macca yet mustered.

Somewhat reminiscent of the narrative style pioneered in “Rocky Raccoon,” “Sally G” tells the story of an innocent who gets played by the title character “somewhere to the south of New York City.” With appropriate C&W accompaniment (pedal steel, fiddle), the song displays Paul’s mastery of styles beyond pop/rock. The track was catchy to boot, reaching the unexpected peak of seventeen on the Billboard Top Forty 

For all that, the song was only issued on CD as a bonus track to Wings At The Speed Of Sound, being thrice passed over for inclusion on Wings compilations.

 

“I DON’T CARE ANYMORE” B-SIDE TO “DARK HORSE” - RELEASED NOVEMBER 18, 1974

Perhaps the single best documentation of the “grumpy George” on record, the title of this non-album B-side said it all. Accentuating the bother that his listeners have apparently put him through in demanding a flipside to his latest album’s title track, a slightly inebriated sounding George announces feeling put out at the onset: “We got a b-side to make, ladies and gentlemen. We haven't got much time now so we better get right on with it.”  

With that, he gruffly launches into a sordid tale of an illicit romance – something he would have been more than familiar with by this time – as he accompanies himself on a barely in tune acoustic twelve-string guitar. The pity of it is, had he committed to more than this single take, he might have crafted a somewhat more durable product. The song is a rather atypical (for George) acoustic blues, but with the usual allotment of intriguing chord changes that were a Harrison hallmark.

For a recording that will never rate above novelty status, its almost comical to note that a sheet music issue of this song was published in 1975 (bearing a 1971 photo of George). 

While appearing on bootleg collections, the song’s only shot at a sanctioned release will only likely come when the Dark Horse album is remastered, if ever.

 

“MOVE OVER MS. L” B-SIDE TO “STAND BY ME” - RELEASED MARCH 10, 1975

The epoch known in Lennon lore as “the Lost Weekend” can in actuality be seen as perhaps one of his most productive and inspired periods. Having once again found his muse, John began rebounding from the somewhat less-than-stellar output of the previous two years. When not recording with and/or writing for others (Nilsson, Ringo, Keith Moon, Elton, Jagger), he set about tackling a strong collection of original material, book-ended between bouts of oldies work.

Walls and Bridges represented a return to form, resulting in a successful marriage of production and introspection unseen since Imagine. Though most of the material consisted of adroit explorations of his current situation – taking stock of his life against the tableau of marital separation – he also showed that the love of wordplay that had fueled his creativity going back at least as far as adolescence was still strong.

Nowhere was that characteristic on greater display than on “Move Over Ms. L,” a rollicking fifties-style rocker. Believed by many to be a slap at his estranged wife, an examination of the actual lyric shows that that interpretation is a bit of stretch, at best. While one can view the song’s refrain (“You know I wish you well”) as a direct fare-thee-well to Yoko, it also wouldn’t be the first time that John strung a series of non-sequetic phrases together for the pure sound of them; furthermore, when communicating something personal, John famously tended toward the direct rather than the oblique.     

The song was recorded in just a few takes in mid-July 1974, when his well-rehearsed band were operating at the peak of their collective powers. John had every intention of issuing the song on Walls and Bridges; in fact, a preliminary proof of the lyric insert placed the song on side two, between “Surprise Surprise” and “What You Got.” (The latter tune was, of course, re-slotted to side one.)  But at the eleventh hour, only weeks before the record was set to be pressed, the tune was dropped.

Why this occurred is a mystery. The performance captured is as good as anything else on the album and would’ve fit nicely alongside some of the other upbeat material. The theory that it was bumped in favor of a stronger track may hold water, for though the album consisted of eleven songs (omitting “Ya Ya,” which is really just a fragment) at a time when the industry norm was twelve, Walls and Bridges does clock in at a hefty forty-six minutes, making it the longest single album he ever issued. 

The song wouldn’t remain in the can for long, though. Six months after its intended parent album was issued, “Move Over Ms. L” emerged as the flip of “Stand By Me.” Though a Lennon composition and not an oldie per se, the coupling made sense, in terms of pairing a ballad with a rocker. Less explicable was passing over the song later that year when the Shaved Fish compilation was collated. Ostensibly an attempt to gather the stray hits and misses that had been issued on singles (“Collectible Lennon” was the album’s subtitle), Lennon himself overlooked issuing the track where it might best be appreciated.

Not until the 1989 re-issue of 1982’s John Lennon Collection on compact disc was the song finally given a proper airing, as a CD “bonus track.” But as this particular compilation has twice been superceded since (by Lennon Legend and Working Class Hero), the song has again fallen through the cracks. (An alternate take was issued with superb remastering on the Lennon Anthology box set, but purists remain dissatisfied.)

 

“JUST A DREAM” B-SIDE TO “WINGS” AND “DROWNING IN THE SEA OF LOVE” - RELEASED AUGUST 25, 1977 & OCTOBER 18, 1977

Possibly the most overtly “disco” track to emerge from the Ringo the 4^th sessions, it is somewhat surprising that “Just A Dream” was passed over for inclusion on the parent album (in favor of arguably inferior material), but was twice used as a B-side, for both singles spawned from the album. If one is able to accept the dance divo persona that permeates the album – and that’s a big if – then surely this track is at least, inoffensive. 

That said, there are fans that understandably will wince at the track’s dance floor trappings: the relentless beat, the female back-up singers, the repeated cries of “Yowsah! Yowsah! Yowsah!” (Wait – I made that last one up.) Still, it is curious that this Starkey-Poncia composition has not been added to the CD issue of RT4, if only as a curiosity. If a Ringo Anthology rarities collection is one day assembled– preferably not by bootleggers – than perhaps this oddity will find a home alongside other artifacts of a rather singular time and place.

“GIRLS SCHOOL” B-SIDE TO “MULL OF KINTYRE” (American A-side) - RELEASED NOVEMBER 14, 1978

The London Town sessions were marked by a retreat from the harder-edged sound that had largely defined Wings during their world tour. One exception to the prevailing tide was this song, a tune that would probably have fit nicely into their live sets. Given that Jimmy McCulloch was introduced to the public via a strong rocker (“Junior’s Farm”), it seemed somehow fitting that he should take his leave from the band in the same style.

“Girls School” was written in Hawaii during some downtime from the 1975 Australian tour. Having stumbled across a local newspaper, Paul was intrigued to discover the listings for “adult” movie fare in the paper’s back pages. The song grew out of an attempt to string together as many titles as he could, resulting in lyrics citing “Kid Sister,” “Spanish Doll,” “Oriental Princess,” and – most intriguingly – “The Woman Trainer.”

To anyone who’d witnessed their live shows, the recording represented a promising return to form. The drums thunder along, and some fine slide guitar interplay provides support for a typically superlative McCartney rock vocal. But the song had the singular misfortune of being issued on the flip of what in Britain proved to be a phenomenon; “Mull Of Kintyre” was a monster, shattering singles sales records in the U.K. held since 1963. Alongside such a uniquely British tune, the rather conventional rocker didn’t stand a chance, no matter what its merits.

In the States, the path to airplay was clear with Capitol not even attempting to promote the rather sketchy bag pipe-laden side. Instead, the virtues of “something for everyone” were played up, with radio stations encouraged to make “Girls School” the plug side (with a specially edited DJ version). Notwithstanding the qualities of either side of Wings’ latest offering, the public wasn’t biting. As the more commercial (at least to American ears) side, “Girls School” just wasn’t finding its groove with record buyers, stalling at thirty-three.

Had it been issued without the burden of “Mull of Kintyre” strapped to its back, “Girls School” might have done better. But coming in the shadow of a song destined to remain little more than a novelty in the former colonies, the track was doomed. Its relative American failure, conspicuously in the face of such success elsewhere, did not sit well with its creator. Feeling Capitol had let him down made the decision to sign with Columbia in 1979 that much easier.

 

“DAYTIME NIGHTIME SUFFERING” B-SIDE TO “GOODNIGHT TONIGHT” - RELEASED MARCH 15, 1979

The genesis of this inexplicably overlooked track came from a challenge Macca issued to his Wingmates one day. Whoever wrote the best song over the weekend would reap the financial reward of having the tune accorded the B-side of the sure-fire hit, “Goodnight Tonight.” Each member of the band therefore set to work on composing material, but come Monday, Paul announced – surprise! – that his own composition, “Daytime Nighttime Suffering,” would take the prize.

Characteristic immodesty aside, for once Paul’s conceit was justified. This perfect pop creation was a stunner, from its harmonized vocal opening to the adroit instrumental arrangement and performance. What is interesting is the moral quandary Paul found himself in when he recognized that he now had two suitable candidates for the A-side. A prolonged period of deliberation ensued, as the tracks sat in the can while Macca dilly-dallied over a final decision (given that the day of the double-A side single had come and gone, or so Paul believed after “Girls School” stiffed).

Ultimately, he went with his original choice, therein losing the chance at giving “Nighttime” its day. While “Goodnight Tonight” performed respectably enough upon release, peaking at number five, the dance track hasn’t exactly aged well; when was the last time you heard it on the radio? Meanwhile, other Macca pop offerings like “Listen To What The Man Said” and “Another Day” have never gone out of fashion. Had it been issued separately or as a track on the Back To The Egg album, perhaps “Daytime Nighttime Suffering” might’ve been spared the obscurity it now resides in. (Though included on the Wingspan set, it is almost never given airplay.)      

 

“LUNCHBOX/ODD SOX” B-SIDE TO “COMING UP” - RELEASED APRIL 15, 1980

The last non-album B-side issued within the scope of this book was five years old by the time the public first got to hear it. Recorded at the start of the New Orleans sessions in January 1975, the instrumental “Lunch Box/Odd Sox” was among Geoff Britton’s final tracks with Wings. It’s basically a signature McCartney-esque piano lick, graced with an overlay of synthesizer.

Like far too many Macca recordings, the track contains some marvelously inventive passages that simply go undeveloped. Had he access to another songwriter who might have been able to contribute something of value, or had he himself taken it a little more seriously, the track could have made for something that merited repeat listenings. As it is, it’s little more than a structured jam, bereft of even some guitar to keep it interesting.

Such is the price of undervaluing your own gifts; if musical ideas keep pouring out of you, it’s challenging to properly channel one when ten more are queuing up. “Lunch Box/Odd Sox” currently resides alongside the heretofore unreleased “My Carnival” (cut during the same sessions) on the Venus and Mars CD.

All material copyright 2010 by Robert Rodriguez. No unauthorized reproduction permitted without the express written permission of the author.

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