Vol. 36 No. 2 1969 - page 285

AQUARIUS
285
course they're all nice numbers, pulling one's surface sensations here
and there at Paul's will. They're facile, top-ten songs for other, value–
less bands.
The Beatles kick out the jams only in their hard rock numbers:
"Back in the U.S.S.R.," "Birthday" and "Helter Skelter." But the
eclecticism of the first two numbers makes them evanescent. They
may intend to be good jokes about the Beach Boys, Chuck Berry
and Little Richard; in fact, they hide behind these out-front stars.
"Helter Skelter" is the only cut on
The Beatles
that holds up in
1969. Its energy flow is autonomous, filling your head with all the
reasons you have for exhilaration and action, never letting you go.
Most of the cuts on
The Beatles
are accomplished and talented.
But talent is not the problem. The Beatles' presence has gone. The
members of the band air themselves singly (even Ringo) and that's
an abdication. Great rock affects us permanently; it moves us; it
changes some part of our sensibility, so that afterwards we are dif–
ferent from what we were before, although the change may not be
of a type we are accustomed to be articulate about. Eight months
ago I gave strong praise to
The Beatles,
and now I know I was
wrong: because it hasn't stuck. The Beatles haven't shaped up.
They've lost; and they are lost to us.
The easy comparison between
The Beatles
and
Beggar's Ban–
quet
is between the lyrics of "Revolution No. 1" and "Street-fighting
Man." The interesting comparison is between the way the songs are
sung. Lennon muses his way tonelessly through his song, not seeming
to mind whether it's heard or not. Jagger gives you no chances.
"Street-fighting Man" was first released, as a single, in America,
and the first time I heard it was from a rushed-in import, played
over a PA system at maximum volume, in a 2500 capacity hall in
London, waiting to see the Doors perform. The perfect atmosphere.
The story is that this number was banned in Chicago during the
Democratic convention; and if so, no surprise. Jagger may say "but
where I live the game to play is compromise solution" (thinking
of Brian Jones?); but that isn't what he sings. His voice pours into
your head, quarrying new lodes of menace and disturbance. His
vio–
lent monosyllabic emphasis (Everywhere I
hear
the
sound
of
march–
ing,
charging, feet,
boy) is relentless, inescapable.
Beggar's Banquet
demonstrates the Rolling Stones' primal power
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