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GEOFFREY CANNON
And, in conversation with Paul McCartney: "when we started, you
know, when Beatlemania started, we had this idea, of being invited
to a Royal Command Performance, and we'd be on stage, and look
at everyone, and, you know, the Queen, and we'd say
'Yuck
You.'
But we never did."
And they never did.
AS
with the building of Apple,
The Beatles
shows them turned in on themselves, and unable either to satisfy or
to project themselves; with the exception of George Harrison, who
does his own, silver, contained thing. Harrison
is
cool, beautiful and
has lived his experience. The music in "While my guitar gently
weeps" is successfully compassionate. But to whom is the elegy ad–
dressed? Despite the emphatic orchestration, Harrison's voice wavers.
"Savoy Truffle" is a better number, because it is slighter. The hee–
haw chorus is to be enjoyed.
John Lennon, as he's broadcast, doesn't know his own mind.
The only icon the Beatles have produced
in
the last twelve months
is
his sad naked
Two Virgins
cover, with Yoko Ono. Don't let the
Lennon/McCartney attributions deceive you. All these numbers on
The Beatles
are either Lennon or McCartney: they are not together.
"Glass Onion"
is
self-indulgent. The Beatles have lost the "now you
see us, now you don't" race; Frank Zappa is laps ahead and laugh–
ing. Lennon is not a literary giant: his enigmas don't resolve, be–
cause they don't point anywhere. "Glass Onion" (unlike "I Am A
Walrus")
is
not mind-expanding; it's the free-associations of a bright
don't-give-a-damn kid. "Yer Blues" displays Lennon's agony. "My
mother was of the sky/My father was of the earth/But I am of the
universe." The universe, or nothing; and, maybe, Lennon senses, it's
nothing. He is solitary. His voice is self-pitilessly empty in "Julia."
No other band would dare cover this cut. Lennon puts only himself
in it, as Billie Holiday did in her songs. In "Revolution No.9" there's
only noise, sweeping over and through his head, unformed, mean–
inglessly menacing. He can't cope. A voice: "everyone ever knew
that as time went by they'd get a little bit older and a little bit
slower." A sentence.
Some mischief-maker, probably himself, whispered in Paul
McCartney's ear: "Gershwin." So, "Dear Prudence," "Martha My
Dear," "Blackbird," "Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da," "Honey Pie." "Paul,
you're a Composer, toss off some masterpieces." Toss off, right. Of
