Beatles - All you need is pop

Intro

A walk down Abbey Road

L’unica cosa che posso dirti è che devi essere libero.

(da “Come Together”)

London, August 8, 1969. Four men are crossing a street, walking in single file across a zebra-striped pedestrian crossing. Their names are John, Ringo, Paul and George, and for some time now they've had a band going. The band's photographer has been given just ten minutes to capture a walk, and a precise instant in the history of rock music. A few days later, a crucial festival will be held at Woodstock, swiftly followed by the incendiary performances on the Isle of Wight. Another British group, the Rolling Stones, are electrifying their fans with the single “Honky Tonk Woman”. In July, a single came out, “Give Peace A Chance”, which set in motion the giant machine of utopia and peace belonging to a supergroup featuring the god of electric guitar Eric Clapton and the drum-kit madman Keith Moon. Behind its formation lies the artistic-sexual partnership between the Land of the Rising Sun's avant-gardist Yoko Ono and the first man in the crossing, John. On August 8, 1969, John leads the group, dressed entirely in white, with long brown hair and his unmistakable round glasses. He looks like a prophet, a Jesus Christ of his times. In fact, he is one — even more famous, actually. He's followed by the second man, Ringo, dressed entirely in black, like a charleston-dancing undertaker. A legend would flourish in the years that followed claiming that the third man, Paul, had been replaced by a lookalike, a left-handed bassist and guitarist who was a perfect double. It would be this double, almost a year later, who would publicly announce the definitive breakup of the psychedelic toy.

Among the causes that have emerged over the years: the presence of Ono herself, the death of the natural glue Brian Epstein, the increasingly pronounced artistic differences between John the prophet and Paul the lookalike. The license plate of a Volkswagen Beetle parked along the sidewalk reads: LMW 28IF. Widow Linda McCartney, 28 if he were still alive. Death would come up again just a day later, when Charles Manson's cult would massacre actress Sharon Tate. To the rhythm of the anthem “Helter Skelter”, written in particular by Paul McCartney himself. Finally, the gravedigger, the man who would soon dig the grave, George. George had begun writing ever more beautiful songs, like “Something” and “Here Comes The Sun”, abandoning the role of mere taciturn, introverted guitarist with little taste for the spotlight. One more reason for a breakup that would shake the entire landscape of popular music. The zebra-striped pedestrian crossing has been cleared, Paul, John, Ringo and George have been buried under the weight of their own legend.

The Quarrymen: crescere a Liverpool…

Rock and roll was the only thing that stayed with me after everything that happened to me when I was fifteen.

(John Lennon)

John Lennon and Paul McCartney's young lives first cross paths at the beginning of July 1957. It happens at a fete organized by St. Peter's Church in Woolton, a suburb of Liverpool. John Lennon is sixteen and plays in a skiffle group called The Quarrymen. McCartney is only fourteen, but already knows how to tune a guitar and is well versed in chords. He's immediately recruited into the Quarrymen.

John Winston Lennon was born on 9 October 1940 in a Liverpool under constant aerial bombardment. His father, Alfred “Freddie” Lennon, worked as a merchant seaman and chose to go back to sea almost immediately after his son's birth. He was rarely ever home, leaving young John's upbringing to his mother, Julia Stanley, and her four older sisters. Julia, however, loved the nightlife, spending many evenings in Liverpool's pubs, which led her to hand John over to her sister, Aunt Mimi Smith, to raise him. Later, Freddie Lennon returned to Liverpool, learning from his wife's own lips that their marriage was over. He decided to take young John on holiday to Blackpool, and when Julia didn't see him come back on the agreed day, she went to fetch him herself. At that point young Lennon faced a traumatic choice: stay with Freddie or with Julia. John chose his mother, but was immediately taken back to Aunt Mimi, a stricter, more authoritarian figure who would raise him like a real mother until he turned eighteen. In the home of Aunt Mimi and Uncle George, John grew up fairly comfortably, nourishing his sharp intelligence first at Dovedale Elementary School and then at Quarry Bank Grammar School. Young Lennon read Lewis Carroll and Edgar Allan Poe, getting into numerous fights and keeping up a mocking attitude toward school authorities.

In September 1955, Bill Haley's single “Rock Around The Clock” came out, carrying the fire of the new music at full speed to both sides of the ocean. John was struck down on the road to Elvis Presley and Little Richard. In Liverpool, the skiffle craze exploded, a mix of Black folk and country & western gallop. Fifteen-year-old teenagers like John started dressing as teddy boys, in drainpipe trousers and velvet jackets. Julia Lennon taught her son a few chords on the banjo, pushing him to form a band with his friend Pete Shotton: The Quarrymen.

And so we arrive at July 1957, the true beginning of the story. But first there are Paul and George.

James Paul McCartney was born on 18 June 1942 in a Liverpool now spared the nightly bombing raids. The infant was lifted from his father Jim's arms into the loving embrace of his mother, Mary Mohan. Jim McCartney worked as a cotton salesman, but after the war the market collapsed, forcing his mother Mary to go back to her job as a nurse. Young Paul started attending the Liverpool Institute, quickly becoming a favourite of classmates and teachers alike for his witty, brilliant manner. Even the death of his mother Mary from breast cancer in 1956 failed to dent his character. Young Paul was fortunate enough to come from a solid family devoted to music. He began playing guitar left-handed, learning lyrics and chords by heart, including the essential rock and roll songs of Eddie Cochran and Elvis Presley.

Paul attended the same school as George Harrison, having fun playing together for hours on end. George Harrison was born in the same Liverpool, sheltered from the bombs, on 25 February 1943, to Harold Harrison and Louise French. His father supported a large family on a modest bus driver's wage, living in a freezing house in the working-class districts. George enrolled at the Liverpool Institute, but soon fled in horror to become an apprentice electrician in a department store.

July 1957. Paul McCartney impressed John Lennon's young band with a rendition of Eddie Cochran's “Twenty Flight Rock”. Lennon wasn't sure he wanted to recruit the excellent Paul into the band, fearing he'd lose his grip on leadership. In the end, he thought of the group as a whole and invited him in, along with George Harrison. George adored John and was the only one capable of playing a full solo, perhaps lifted from Carl Perkins' repertoire. In mid-1958, the Quarrymen recorded an acetate featuring a cover of Buddy Holly's “That'll Be The Day”.

Then came John's personal tragedy. On the evening of 15 July 1958, Julia Lennon was struck by the car of an inexperienced policeman, dying on the way to the hospital. John was devastated, starting to drink heavily and showing increasingly violent tendencies, as testified by his classmates at Liverpool Art College. All that remained was rock and roll and an ever-stronger friendship with Paul, who had also been robbed of his mother's love.

January 1960. The Quarrymen's line-up gained the improvised bass of Stuart Sutcliffe, one of John Lennon's closest friends as well as a reasonably talented painter. The band didn't play live, but it was nonetheless a frantic period full of changes. In March, the four decided to rename the band Beatals. Then, with the addition of Tommy Moore on drums, the group took the name Silver Beetles. The Silver Beetles embarked on a short tour of Scotland backing singer Johnny Gentle, but the shows were a disaster. In June, they began a new run of gigs around the Liverpool area, including one opening for a stripper. Lennon had decided to drop out of the College of Art for good, while Tommy Moore left what were now calling themselves the Silver Beatles.

…and in Hamburg

This experience turned us into a charismatic powerhouse.

(Pete Best)

July 1960. Allan Williams, who had become the band's part-time manager and promoter, invited Bruno Koschmider — owner of a club in Hamburg — to see the Silver Beatles play live at the Two I's in Soho. Koschmider liked the young band's music and decided to book them for 48 nights at his venue, the Indra Club. But they still lacked a drummer, and Allan Williams refused to let the boys leave without one. So an eighteen-year-old drummer named Randolph Peter Best, or more simply Pete Best, was hired. The son of Mona Best, owner of Liverpool's Casbah Club, the young man was eager to make a career for himself, and the newly formed Beatles looked like the ideal opportunity.

By September, the Beatles found themselves playing steadily across four different venues (the Indra, Kaiserkeller, Top Ten and All Star) in the city's notorious red-light district, better known as the Reeperbahn. The usual clientele consisted of drunken sailors, prostitutes, rockers and street thugs. The music barely mattered, given that the waiters served tables with a flip knife tucked in their trouser pocket. But the five Beatles learned some very important lessons in Hamburg, above all to mach schau! — to put on a show. In particular, John and Paul — co-leaders of the band — threw themselves into it relentlessly, playing as if there were no tomorrow. Free beer and a fair dose of amphetamines helped fuel the spectacle. After about a month, the Beatles were moved to the Kaiserkeller for being too loud. It was there that they shared the stage with another Liverpool rock and roll outfit, Rory Storm & The Hurricanes, whose drummer was named Richard Starkey, better known as Ringo Starr.

Life in Hamburg was among the most punishing imaginable, between exhausting gigs running until two in the morning, hotel rooms at the very limits of human hygiene, and wild sexual antics to the cry of “swap!”.

Bruno Koschmider was pleased with the Beatles and offered them another two months on contract. But the situation changed abruptly. George Harrison was deported for being underage, while McCartney and Pete Best were sent home for starting a fire in their room. Not to mention the departure of Stuart Sutcliffe, who had fallen madly in love with German photographer Astrid Kirchherr. Back home in early December, morale was fairly low, but something incredible was about to happen.

December 27, 1960. Without even realizing it, the Beatles have become one of the most interesting musical forces in Liverpool. The show at the Town Hall Ballroom turns into an incredible success, with hundreds of fans ready to storm the stage. It's a watershed gig, a pivotal date in the band's early years. Starting from the beginning of 1961, the Beatles' fanbase grows exponentially, with venues all over Liverpool clamouring for them. One of these is the Cavern Club, where the band makes its debut on February 9, 1961. The damp ballroom becomes the foursome's hideout, a kind of second home where they play both lunchtime and late-night sets.

The four young beetles thus continue their apprenticeship, building an ever wider and more loyal regional following. In the spring of 1961, the Beatles return to Hamburg's Top Ten club, but this time they're in a position to negotiate directly with the venue's management. On German soil they get their first taste of professional recording, backing Tony Sheridan — a Liverpool singer in the Elvis mould — on the track "My Bonnie". The result isn't exactly a masterpiece, but it proves crucial in catching the eye of a man named Brian Epstein.

Brian Samuel Epstein was born in Liverpool in 1934 into a Jewish family who ran a music shop. He began attending drama school in London, but after dropping out in his third year he was promptly sent by his father to work in a new record shop run by the family. Epstein first noticed the name Beatles on a concert poster, intrigued by the constant requests for the single "My Bonnie". He decides to go and see them play at the Cavern, specifically during the lunchtime show on November 9, 1961. Brian is instantly struck by the four lads' beat and wit, recognising some of them among his own shop's customers. It's love at first sight: Epstein offers himself up to the Beatles as manager, and gets the job almost immediately.

Epstein's business clout soon makes itself felt, when Brian invites an A&R man from Decca to come and hear the band at the Cavern. The label invites the Beatles to London for an audition.

Ringo Starr has joined the band

You must be mad. These boys are going to explode any minute now. I'm absolutely certain that one day they'll be bigger than Elvis Presley.

(Brian Epstein to the Decca executives)

When the Beatles show up at the Decca studios in London on New Year's Day 1962, two things are palpable in the air: the four of them are extremely nervous, and their sound has been smoothed over, polished down. Epstein had in fact suggested his boys adapt to the recording techniques standard in the music industry, ditching their dirty, mean-sounding Vox amps. The strategy backfires, draining the band of its energy. Decca declares itself uninterested in the Beatles, sparking the new manager's fury. Fury, yes, but also perseverance. Epstein tries Pye and Oriole before landing a meeting with Parlophone, an EMI subsidiary label whose output consists mainly of comedy and spoken-word records. The man at Parlophone is called George Martin.

George Henry Martin was born in London in 1926 and showed an early love of classical music, particularly the oboe and piano, instruments he studied at the London School of Music.

In April 1962 the Beatles are back in Hamburg, where they play 48 nights at the Star Club. One morning a telegram from Epstein wakes them up: "Congratulations boys. EMI requests recording session. Please rehearse new material." No sooner said than done. On June 6, 1962, the four of them play for George Martin, recording four tracks: a version of the classic "Besame Mucho" and three Lennon-McCartney originals, "Love Me Do", "P.S. I Love You" and "Ask Me Why". Martin isn't especially blown away by the band's technique, but he understands their collective potential is very high, above all in terms of the sound's energy and originality. Indeed, the contract with EMI/Parlophone has already been signed. With one condition imposed by Martin himself: replace Pete Best with a professional.

It's the last straw. Paul, John and George have never really seen Best as one of their own, and can't wait to replace him with Rory Storm's likeable drummer, Ringo Starr.

Richard Starkey was born on July 7, 1940 in Liverpool to Richard Starkey and Elsie Gleave. The couple separate three years later, forcing his mother Elsie to work as a waitress and live in the Dingle, one of the roughest ghetto neighbourhoods in the whole city. Young Richard grows up sickly, confined to a sanatorium for two years due to pleurisy. This long stay leaves him behind in his schooling, prompting his stepfather to find him a job as an apprentice plumber. But also to buy him a drum kit on credit. Then, in August 1962, Ringo Starr is officially invited to join what will become the definitive line-up of the Beatles.

An air of feverish excitement permeates the band's hopes for the future. The contract with Parlophone has been signed, and Granada TV has turned up at the Cavern Club to film one of their shows. On August 23, John Lennon marries Cynthia Powell, his long-time girlfriend since their school days. Right after, in September, the Beatles throw themselves into the fray at Studio 3, Abbey Road, trying to record a batch of songs including "Love Me Do", one of the very first songs written by a sixteen-year-old Paul McCartney. Ringo Starr's studio debut is less than stellar: he can't even keep time on a very simple, two-chord song. George Martin, however, remains convinced of the song's worth, choosing it as the first single, released on October 5, 1962. Something, though, doesn't go quite as it should, and "Love Me Do" only reaches number seventeen on the British pop charts. Too rough and sloppy, according to some. Primitive, in short: exactly what's needed to shake the staid English pop scene to its foundations.

"Please Please Me": rising up in the land of Albion

The best English composers of 1963.

(The Times su Lennon/McCartney)

At the start of November 1962, the Beatles return once again to Hamburg, where they perform at the Star Club alongside one of the undisputed idols of American rock and roll: Little Richard. Playing with the wild pianist of "Tutti Frutti" is a multi-instrumentalist named Billy Preston. But there's no time to linger in Germany, because the four of them are no longer just young lads eager to play in any smoke-filled dive. They have a contract, and a record to make. One of the songs recorded during the session of 26 November 1962 is "Please Please Me", written entirely by John Lennon and inspired by Roy Orbison's "Only The Lonely". George Martin, who is still trying to push commercial songs like "How Do You Do It" on the band, recognises the song's potential, working for the first time alongside his new protégés. At the end of the studio take, Martin tells them: "Gentlemen, you have just made your first number one record".

"Please Please Me" is released in January 1963 and climbs to the top of the British charts. Buoyed by the song's success, the Beatles become convinced that the time has come to release a full album. The problem is that they don't have a free moment, caught up in a whirlwind of constant gigs between Liverpool and London. On 2 February 1963, a 30-date tour begins alongside the young actress and singer Helen Shapiro. The only way to record is to gather at Abbey Road for a single day, lay the tracks down, and head straight back out to Yorkshire for the tour. There's just one problem: Lennon and co. are ten songs short. So George Martin suggests they draw on some of their live set, recreating in the studio the same energy that filled the air at the Cavern Club. The Beatles work non-stop for hours on end, without ever pausing. Finally, at ten in the evening, the four launch into a wild rendition of "Twist And Shout". The record is ready, and it's released on 22 March 1963.

Please Please Me (Parlophone, 1963) is a debut that's primitive in its melodies, catchy in its urgency. The suggestive handclapping of "I Saw Her Standing There" is the first rock and roll cry signed Paul McCartney, who looks to the American greats through risqué poses and raw arrangements. The gap between the melodic Paul and the sharper-edged John Lennon is already clear from the moment the bittersweet "Misery" kicks in, a song originally written for actress and singer Helen Shapiro, with whom the Beatles set off on their first British tour. Lennon presents himself as a still-adolescent songwriter, lost in the unripe melancholy of "Anna (Go To Him)". Just as unripe are the rhythms and harmonies driven by George Harrison on "Chains", a song plucked from the early songwriting talent of Carole King. The four aspiring popstars perhaps have the flaw of reaching for filler, in order to put together a record fit for already-promising chart positions. Rather questionable, in fact, is the inclusion of a track like "Boys", sung by Ringo Starr and lifted from the Shirelles' doo-wop repertoire.

The band looks elsewhere too, as in the Smokey Robinson style evoked by Lennon on "Ask Me Why". There's also a touch of Roy Orbison in the first hit that gives the album its title, a ballad format perfect for winning over the hearts of girls across half of England. Here, the Beatles seem to show real talent, especially tied to McCartney's creative streak, who pens the harmony of "Love Me Do", complete with a working-class northern harmonica and drumming on the edge of loveable sloppiness. These are flashes of light within an artistic originality that is at times dampened by numbers like the Caribbean-flavoured, letter-writing "P.S. I Love You" and the shoo-bop-doo-wop remake of Burt Bacharach's "Baby It's You". Harrison finds new glory, but "Do You Want To Know A Secret" is little more than a Disney-like nursery rhyme.

That Please Please Me is a rather patched-together record is clear, for instance, in the cinematic arrangement of "A Taste Of Honey". But when the four lads from Liverpool launch into the fervent, impassioned version of "Twist And Shout", it's clear the talent is there. All that's left is to wait.

After the album's release, more and more people in Britain start talking about four future idols of the pop and rock and roll masses. Please Please Me is the main reason music publisher Dick James gets in touch with Brian Epstein to propose setting up Northern Songs, a publishing company that would hold all rights to the group's lyrics. The album takes seven weeks to reach number one on the British charts, staying at the top for an almost endless stretch by the standards of the time: twenty-nine weeks. A sudden and spectacular success that, however, does not meet the same fate in the United States. The album, released there under the different title "Introducing The Beatles", turns out to be a flop, convincing Capitol (EMI's American division) to turn the four down, dismissing them as a passing fad. The small Chicago label Vee Jay takes on the release instead, but without any real promotion. While the Beatles dominate the charts and the hearts of England, the United States, birthplace of rock and roll, seems to ignore them without a shred of mercy.

Beatlemania

Where are we going, lads? To the top, Johnny. And where's that, this top? Well, it's to the toppermost of the poppermost!

(The Beatles)

On 8 April 1963, John Lennon takes a further step toward adulthood, becoming father to little Julian. Three days later, another joy awaits him: the release in Britain of the new single "From Me To You". Marked by a new harmonica phrasing, the song winds its way sinuously along a bouncing beat rhythm, allowing McCartney's melodic flair to blend almost perfectly with Lennon's more wistful touch. The song's syncopated hook lands a winning blow, settling in comfortably for seven weeks at number one on the British charts.

Meanwhile, during a concert at the Royal Albert Hall in London, McCartney meets actress Jane Asher, sparking a very intense relationship. With her, a holiday in Tenerife, before setting off again in May on tour with Roy Orbison.

The strain of constant gigging is exhausting, and once again forces the band to record their second album in just two sessions between mid- and late July 1963. Success has arrived, and the iron must be struck while it's hot. On 23 August, the new single "She Loves You" is released, destined to shake the British pop landscape to its foundations and become the best-selling single of all time by the Liverpool quartet. The song amplifies the power of the middle eight already heard on "From Me To You", speeding up the beat rhythm driven by Ringo's drums and Harrison's Rickenbacker. The "yeah, yeah, yeah" hook sinks in, latching onto the listener like a hawk of pop-rock and roll. So much so that some people even start tapping their feet in the States.

On 13 October 1963, the Beatles are due to perform on the most popular variety show on television, Sunday Night at the London Palladium. It's pandemonium. Crowds of screaming fans — mostly teenage girls — block traffic, press against the police, and even chase the quartet's limousine. The London papers of Fleet Street have given this mass hysteria a name: Beatlemania.

From 24 to 31 October 1963, the Beatles are in Sweden for their first overseas tour. On their return, a howling crowd awaits them at Heathrow Airport, captured by numerous newspapers and television crews. Everyone wants the Beatles, even the royal family. For the Royal Command Performance, the four play at the Prince of Wales Theatre in London. Lennon, in a gesture that would become legendary, invites the royals to rattle their jewellery in a show of approval. The girls go wild over their cheeky, rebellious behaviour.

Meanwhile, the second album is ready for release, on 22 November 1963.

Riding on what has just been dubbed Beatlemania, With The Beatles (Parlophone, 1963) attempts to build on the radio-friendly, commercial appeal of the debut album. The Liverpool quartet are still forced to record live in the studio, without the time needed to polish arrangements and vocal approaches. The result is another immediate, raw album, but slightly more patched-together than Please Please Me. Once again, the winning formula of the "yeah, yeah, yeah" chorus holds true, echoed in the fiery twist-beat number of Lennon's "It Won't Be Long". The Beatles veer toward a clear Miracles-inspired style, as in the melancholic "All I've Got To Do". A melancholy more typical of John than of Paul McCartney, who instead floats carefree through the beat-pop sea of "All My Loving". Harrison, for his part, draws on a certain adolescent bitterness, penning his first original composition for the group, "Don't Bother Me".

These are early drafts, simple attempts at reaching compositional maturity, underscored by the harmonica divertissement of "Little Child", which is ultimately something already heard elsewhere. Guided by George Martin, the four lads evidently try the easy route of charming an all-female audience, as McCartney does, for instance, revisiting Broadway with a Latin twist on "Till There Was You". Listening to the congas played by Ringo Starr, one really doesn't get the impression of being in the presence of a band with a legendary future ahead of it.

Indeed, Capitol's reluctance might well be justified by the fact that the Beatles are helping themselves liberally to the Tamla Motown catalogue, introducing nothing particularly innovative into the English-speaking musical landscape. "Please Mr. Postman" is a case in point, lifted from the Marvelettes' repertoire. And so the Beatles come across as a group that appeals to young girls simply because they play the boogie-woogie of American artists like Chuck Berry, as on "Roll Over Beethoven" (in fact, Harrison seems to play the intro of "Johnny B. Goode"). So why, then, sign a band that plays Smokey Robinson (on "You Really Got A Hold On Me") with less fullness and soul? Certainly no help comes from the tribal "I Wanna Be Your Man", sung by Ringo Starr, or the Latin-tinged doo-wop of "Devil In Her Heart".

The Beatles of "Money", in short, seem like a band good for the charts and for the hearts of girls across England. But something is about to tell the world that it isn't quite so.

By the end of 1963, "She Loves You" reclaims the top of the British charts, ahead of the release of a new single that would soon become a watershed in the Liverpool band's career. On 12 December, "I Want To Hold Your Hand" rises to number one on the UK charts.

The British Invasion

You have to write a song with America in mind.

(Brian Epstein to Lennon/McCartney)

When the single "I Want To Hold Your Hand" is released, everyone immediately realizes they're hearing an absolutely exhilarating, joyous song, irresistible in its beat. But it's a track written not so much for the British public, already won over, as for the American one, far more wary of four English lads with mop-top haircuts and Chuck Berry on the brain. What's more, this is the United States, a nation in mourning for the tragic death of President John Fitzgerald Kennedy. Yet something astonishing happens: "I Want To Hold Your Hand" manages to lift the spirits of an entire nation, which finally falls at the feet of the four lads from the Mersey after their appearance on the hugely watched Ed Sullivan Show on 9 February 1964. American pop music itself is swept through like an electric current, by an almost reckless-sounding beat that was in fact arranged with meticulous precision. The song's spontaneity marks an era, echoing the all-too-distant revolution of Elvis Presley's rock and roll. The Beatles' clean-cut look (Brian Epstein's idea, much to Lennon's displeasure) masks the song's sexual undertones, which push young people to try living beyond Christian-bourgeois conventions. Between 20 and 30 January 1964, the band's first two albums (the second released in the US under the title "Meet The Beatles") suddenly start selling like hotcakes.

Beatlemania is now a matter for the United States too. On 7 February 1964, shortly before their appearance on the Ed Sullivan Show, the Beatles are greeted by an utterly adoring crowd at New York's JFK airport. A staggering 73 million people will watch the show glued to their television sets.

After their triumph in the land of the stars and stripes, the four return home to begin recording their next studio album. Work has only just begun when it's interrupted in early March to start filming "A Hard Day's Night", directed by Richard Lester. It's a documentary bordering on comedy, capturing the band's life on tour, forced into sudden getaways from screaming masses of kids on the verge of collective hysteria. It's no coincidence that the film opens with the four trying to catch a train, chased by a wild horde of fans. The movie fuels the band's international fame even further, amplifying their cheeky, irreverent, irresistible image.

By now, the Beatles turn everything they touch into gold. On 16 March, the single "Can't Buy Me Love" is released in the United States, the first time one of the band's songs comes out in America before Britain. After all, this is the same America currently sending "She Loves You" to the top of the charts. The song's cheerful melody, however, is swept aside by the dazzling energy of "Can't Buy Me Love", which stays at number one on the US charts for five straight weeks. The Beatles are like pop deities: the top five spots on the charts are all occupied by their songs, plus another eleven in the Top 100.

On 19 June 1964, the EP Long Tall Sally (Parlophone, 1964) is released in Britain, led by the title track, co-written by the eccentric rock and roll acrobat Little Richard. The song's lead vocal is handled by Paul McCartney, far more at ease than Lennon at imitating Little Richard's wild vocal gymnastics. John, on the other hand, is given the more biting "I Call Your Name" (also written by Lennon himself), which writhes none too smoothly between cowbells and almost Jamaican inflections. Even more ragged is the cover of "Slow Down", a fifties-flavoured rock and roll number written by the lesser-known Larry Williams.

This little record feels almost like filler, made up of the group's evident leftovers. Further proof of this is another cover - entrusted to Ringo Starr's nasal voice - of Carl Perkins' "Matchbox", a rockabilly number performed without much conviction.

Having definitively conquered England, the Beatles get ready - over the course of 1964 - to spread their beat gospel across the whole world. On 4 June they set off on tour to visit countries such as Denmark, the Netherlands, Australia and New Zealand. In Adelaide, around 300,000 people gather beneath the Beatles' hotel, giving shape to a mass hysteria that by now breaks out wherever the four of them go to play. Beatlemania is everywhere now, spreading like a virus.

When the band's third official album comes out, on 10 July 1964, the city of Liverpool decides to hold a public celebration in honour of the four mop-topped lads.

“A Hard Day’s Night”: the start of the turning point

I heard a strange chord.

(John Lennon)

While their hometown celebrates its pagan holiday, the long-awaited A Hard Day's Night (Parlophone, 1964) is released across Great Britain, already surrounded even before its publication by the aura of hysterical legend created by Richard Lester's film of the same name. A mere handful of seconds into the album and it's immediately clear that something has changed in the sound of the four. All it takes is one strange chord, a strum that reverberates almost into infinity, to officially open an artistic season that will completely overturn the British and global musical landscape. The beat rhythm driven by Lennon on the title track announces the revolution, punctuated by Harrison's most effective solo to date, before closing with the same opening reverb, taking flight toward sonic shores still to come.

“A Hard Day's Night” (the song) is never repeated over the course of the album, which instead makes room for a parade of tracks ranging from melodic to melancholic, in keeping with the first two records, albeit with greater care. Lennon intends to mature at double speed, clearly drawing on Bob Dylan when he sets the tempo with the harmonica on “I Should Have Known Better”. His is the typical grit of an American rocker, howled out on “Any Time At All” and more soulful on “You Can't Do That”, which is not by chance inspired by the music of Wilson Pickett.

McCartney, for his part, tries to come to terms with his innate melodic gift, far outstripping many of his peers with the sheer irresistible structure of “Can't Buy Me Love” alone, stopped and restarted thanks to the increasingly valuable contribution of Ringo Starr. With “Can't Buy Me Love” begins what will be one of the most fruitful songwriting rivalries in the entire history of world rock, with McCartney and Lennon challenging each other with killer choruses, psychedelic detours and ballads of crystalline purity.

But we're still at the beginning, because the record still suffers from a certain naivety. While the ballad “If I Fell” attempts to show a romantic, nostalgic side of the Beatles, tracks like “Tell Me Why” echo the choral style of Tamla Motown a little too closely. And, however catchy, “I'll Cry Instead” essentially retreads certain blues, country and western fusions made in the USA. Harrison really puts his foot down with the beat of “I'm Happy Just To Dance With You”, but the boogie of “When I Get Home” is only good for the screaming crowds, for the live show. Far more interesting, on the other hand, is the idea behind “And I Love Her”, which shows a McCartney in Latin mode, with an eye perhaps a touch too dewy, but also with a pop verve of rare intensity. But in the end, what matters is that strange chord, that strum that will set everything in motion.

As soon as it's released, A Hard Day's Night immediately hits number one on the charts, dominating both in England and in the United States. And the New World is getting ready to welcome the four's first overseas tour, which kicks off in mid-August and doesn't bring them home again until September 20th. For the Beatles, 1964 is a year that seems to never end, with a subsequent tour of Britain and work, in fits and starts, on what is set to become “the fourth of the four”.

At the end of November, the new single “I Feel Fine” is released, opening with a vibrating bass note before sliding into a seductive riff driven by feedback. It's a mutant, hypnotic blues, made harmonic by the melody and the easy chorus. It naturally goes straight to number one on the charts, staying there for weeks.

“I Feel Fine” paves the way for the so-called “fourth of the four”, namely Beatles For Sale (Parlophone, 1964), the album that closes out an unrepeatable year of continuous ascent to global stardom. In their own words, the Beatles are “dead tired”, worn out by endless hours of recording and constant touring around a planet completely mad for them. But there's much more here than fame and champagne. There are four musicians in search of their own creativity, four personalities destined to shine in the firmament of international rock. And Beatles For Sale almost feels like a stopgap record, a workshop where they can experiment without too much fear of getting it wrong. And indeed, Lennon gives it a try. He tries his hand at Bob Dylan, first with the dry rhythm of “No Reply” and then with the folk ballad “I'm A Loser”, enriched by a fine harmonica solo. In 1964, Dylan is perhaps the only artist capable of drawing the hopes of an entire nation onto himself, and he's probably also the first person to introduce the four lads from Liverpool to soft drugs. The Beatles drink scotch and coke, and above all they write ballads like “Baby's In Black”, light and romantic. These are the same four who still look with devotion to American rock and roll, embodied in its purest essence by Chuck Berry and his rollicking “Rock And Roll Music”.

The Beatles try to find the catchy hook, as in the nursery-rhyme simplicity of “I'll Follow The Sun”. In some respects they fail to move beyond the calypso of “Mr. Moonlight” or the verve of “Kansas City/Hey, Hey, Hey”. Probably because a new record had to be filled, sounds had to be fed to the screaming masses. That said, when the reverb of “Eight Days A Week” kicks in, you can hear greater care in the details, in the harmonies, in the nervous handclapping.

The four from Liverpool don't seem to have had much time to record the album, padded out as it is with covers, from Carl Perkins' “Everybody's Trying To Be My Baby” (sung by Harrison) to the rockabilly of “Honey Don't” (Ringo Starr's work here is effective). What stands out, however, is that it's really just a matter of will and time. A more or less unremarkable song – “What You're Doing” – in fact hides a crucial detail, that jingle-jangle guitar rhythm that would soon go on to drive the revolution.

Members of the British Empire

“Ticket To Ride”? One of the first heavy-metal tracks ever recorded.

(John Lennon)

At the start of 1965, John Lennon feels the weight of his band's gigantic fame more than ever before. He's bored with his marriage, with the endless concerts in which the only thing you can actually hear is the collective scream of a crowd of hormonally charged teenagers. So he decides to ask for help, through a new song, written after learning from director Richard Lester that filming for a second Beatles movie would begin in the Bahamas. “Help!” belongs to a creative period Lennon describes as his “Fat Elvis” phase, but in truth it's a further step forward in songwriting done in perfect Dylan-esque style.

As an appetizer for the next album, the Beatles release the single "Ticket To Ride". And it's a surprising revelation: because it's dark, dragging, hardly a shoo-in for the commercial heights. In fact, the United States orders only a limited number of copies, while the Beach Boys' Beach Boys' "Help Me Rhonda" is literally sweeping the charts. The trade press, however, is convinced it's an absolutely revolutionary piece of beat music. In reality, it's simply the way the Beatles are trying to write harder music, following in the wake of bands like Animals, The Who and Rolling Stones. And above all, it's one of the very first songs written under the influence of LSD. The more sinuous, psychedelic guitar rhythm is fairly telling proof of that.

In June, while filming continues for Lester's second film, the Beatles are made "knights" by Queen Elizabeth II, after Prime Minister Harold Wilson had put the four Liverpudlians forward as candidates for the honour, granting them the right to call themselves "Sir". The news — honouring four pop musicians! — sparks outrage among several establishment figures, who decide to reject their own titles in protest.

Between late June and early July 1965, the Beatles tour France, Spain and Italy. In Italy they perform first at the Vigorelli in Milan, then at the Palasport in Genoa and finally at the Teatro Adriano in Rome. The collective hysteria shows no sign of letting up.

On August 6, 1965, the fifth album by those now nicknamed the "Fab Four" is released.

Help! (Parlophone, 1965), the soundtrack to the film of the same name, attempts to widen the sonic scope of the previous two records, ending up definitively establishing John Lennon and Paul McCartney as major contemporary songwriters. Lennon first and foremost, by now obsessed with what many call his Dylan-esque period. "Help!" (the song) veers towards a highly effective, souped-up folk-rock, recounting its composer's need to regain his lost peace of mind. The Beatles are by now treated like circus acts, idolized regardless of the quality of their songs. At one of their concerts, it doesn't matter if Harrison hits a bum note: no one can hear it anyway. "Help!" (the song) helps the four vent their creativity beyond their worldwide fame. It helps, for instance, Paul McCartney work his fine, crystalline pop embroidery, as in "The Night Before", caught up in a danceable rhythm. It is Lennon, though, who initially wins the duel with his bandmate, nailing the folk purity for flute of "You've Got To Hide Your Love Away", almost a mystical lament for lost lovers. McCartney can't match such creativity, settling instead for getting people dancing again with the quasi-country of "Another Girl".

Harrison and Starr are almost left watching from the sidelines, seemingly unable to keep pace with their bandleaders. The former tries his hand again at original composition with the blues of "You Like Me Too Much", but we're on fairly traditional sonic ground here. Starr, meanwhile, plays the role of the jester, having fun with the cover of "Act Naturally". Lennon, on the other hand, drops another gem, that already-mentioned single "Ticket To Ride". Revolutionary.

McCartney chases after his partner, with the simplicity of "Tell Me What You See" and the melancholy folk of "I've Just Seen A Face". And then he hits the mark, with the two-and-a-bit minutes of "Yesterday", which is not only bare in its extreme sadness, but also laid open by one of the first string arrangements coordinated by George Martin. Violins and cellos follow the sparse acoustic guitar, accompanying McCartney's honeyed vocal, as he longs for somewhere to hide. With "Yesterday", McCartney points to a future path increasingly removed from pop and rock and roll. Increasingly creative, in the fullest sense of the word.

Rubber Soul: maturity

How difficult it is to be simple.

(Vincent Van Gogh)

It was the first album to reveal a new, more mature version of the Beatles.

(George Martin)

With "Ticket To Ride", "Help!" and "Yesterday", the Beatles are now on top of the world. On the eve of mid-August 1965, the four set off for their third tour of the United States. A triumphant tour, reaching its peak with a monumental concert at New York's Shea Stadium, in front of more than 55,000 screaming fans. At the end of the month, the Fab Four are received by the King of rock and roll, Elvis Presley, at his home in Los Angeles. Meanwhile, their latest record is soaring up the charts, and London is attending the premiere of Richard Lester's new film.

And there's absolutely no time to stop: the Beatles are like a whirlwind of creativity in the recording studio. In mid-October, the four begin recording a new album of original material. Sessions as spontaneous as they are complex, moving at breakneck speed.

In December, Lennon and co. embark on what will be their last tour of Britain, totalling 18 dates.

By December 3, 1965, Rubber Soul is already on shop shelves.

With Rubber Soul (Parlophone, 1965), the Beatles paint a new, revolutionary landscape for English-language pop music. Across fourteen tracks, almost all under three minutes long, the four lads from the Mersey reach compositional peaks that suddenly become unattainable for many of their contemporaries, laying the groundwork for a new, enlightened monarchy built on three chords. The record, in fact, could unhesitatingly be used to illustrate the very essence of pop music. The Beatles, in short, are starting to get serious, their minds amplified by increasingly frequent use of LSD.

The boogie of “Drive My Car”, carried by an unusually gravel-voiced Paul McCartney, reveals its psychedelic fragrance, complete with an acid-tinged solo from a more assertive George Harrison. It's an experimentation that starts to loosen up and take flight, as when Lennon pours his heart out on “Norwegian Wood (This Bird Has Flown)”, ahead of the quartet's so-called comedy songs. “Norwegian Wood” is the urge to move beyond rock and roll covers and simple pop songs built on yeah, yeah, yeah. It's the firm intention to tell a harrowing story, laid over a spectral folk bed built on doubled sitar. It's in fact the first time Harrison puts into practice the results of his raga influences, inspired by the Indian sitar player Ravi Shankar.

Lennon, as usual, comes out strong, tossing into the sonic mix the atonal, weary ballad “Nowhere Man”, born of his deep dissatisfaction, including with his marriage. McCartney doesn't shine on the la la la pop of “You Won't See Me”. But it's just a divertissement, like the following, breezy “I'm Looking Through You”. In the end McCartney repeats the miracle of “Yesterday” with the French-leaning folk of “Michelle”, carried by an almost crystalline, pure melody. Fiendishly difficult precisely because of its extreme simplicity. But Lennon is still lurking, ready with his answer to “Michelle”. “In My Life” retraces a life in an almost harrowing way, with an interlude of electric piano played by George Martin, as if lending a touch of sanctity to his journey back in time. Before taking on the danceable rhythm of “Run For Your Life”, the acidic close of a record that suddenly leaves all others behind, planting the first seed in the vast ecosystem of world pop.

At the end of December, alongside Rubber Soul, the single “We Can Work It Out” is released. And it's a true stroke of genius. “We Can Work It Out” is the song that perfectly blends Paul McCartney's airy talent with John Lennon's melancholic, lopsided one. The waltz-time turn is backed by Starr's tambourine and above all by the harmonium played by Lennon, in perfect Salvation Army style. The Beatles spend eleven hours in the studio working on the track, a sign that something is changing, that the old impulsiveness is now a thing of the past.

At the start of 1966, George Harrison walks Patti Boyd down the aisle, ahead of a short holiday in Barbados. On February 4th, Lennon sets off a scandal: the London newspaper “Evening Standard” publishes an interview he gave to Maureen Cleave, in which he states that his group is currently more famous than Jesus Christ. “I don't know which will go first,” Lennon says, “rock and roll or Christianity.”

While waiting for a response, the four lock themselves back in the studio for the sessions of their next album. On May 1st, 1966, no one knows yet that the show put on by the New Musical Express will be the last chance to see the Beatles play live in Britain. The Beatles are, by now, on another planet.

The Psychedelic Experience

In “Revolver” there's music no one has ever made before

(Paul McCartney)

On June 10th, 1966, the Beatles release their twelfth single for the British market, “Paperback Writer”. The track bursts with energy, driven by guitars somewhere between psychedelic and power-pop. McCartney sings lead, backed by a sort of four-part polyphonic chorus, evidently modeled on those made famous in the United States by Brian Wilson's Beach Boys, who had just landed in Britain with the single “Sloop John B”.

From June 23rd to July 4th, the band is still on tour, taking in West Germany, Japan and the Philippines. On the evening of the 26th, in fact, Lennon and co. go back to playing in Hamburg, where they find themselves revisiting places from a past that now feels light years away.

At the end of July, the now-notorious John Lennon interview in which he admits to being more famous than Jesus Christ is published for the American public. In the country's more conservative, bigoted areas, the guitarist is accused of blasphemy. Beatles records and lyrics are banned, even burned. But it hardly matters anymore: on August 5th, one of the most emblematic records of its time is ready for release.

Revolver (Parlophone, 1966) is one of the albums that officially usher in the age of psychedelic music, a record that astonishingly blends three ambitious creative directions. Starting with the one steeped in acid, courtesy of John Lennon. After meeting Dylan and trying marijuana, Lennon begins his journeys with LSD, considerably softening his character through the expansion of the mind. What attracts him most at this point is the text “The Psychedelic Experience”, co-written by guru Timothy Leary and apostate psychologist Richard Alpert. From this comes the idea of “surrendering to the void”, of letting his thoughts wander freely, glittering. The absurd, jarring finale of “Tomorrow Never Knows” is the most fully realized fruit of these acid trips, a completely anarchic structure of various tape loops recorded ad hoc and pieced together to give the listener the sense of a genuine drug experience. Lennon experiments with a recording studio amplified by altered states of mind, as for instance in the atonal ballad “I'm Only Sleeping”, built out of reversed Indian guitars and a music-hall gait that had already been partly explored by the new Kinks. With “Revolver”, people start talking about psychedelic rock, probably best embodied by the acid-drenched irregularities of “She Said She Said”, the Beatles' answer to the dazzling new sound of Roger McGuinn's Byrds.

While Lennon experiments with drugs, Paul McCartney carries on his meticulous path with harmony, enriched by increasingly classical inflections. His masterpiece is “Eleanor Rigby”, a veritable treatise on death set for string octet. Next comes the memorable lullaby of “Here, There And Everywhere” and the unreachable simplicity of “For No One”, a sort of waltz in 4/4 time embellished by an unusual French horn solo.

But Revolver is also the record that definitively cements George Harrison's hidden talent, ever more infatuated with the Indian music exported by Ravi Shankar. That's not obvious on “Taxman” — the best track of his batch — which veers toward an anti-government, bluesy groove, complete with chorus and distorted guitar. “Love You To”, however, is pure Eastern gat for sitar.

What follows, filling out the rest of the album, could almost be called superficial. But it's not superficial at all. The fun “Yellow Submarine” is a children's nursery rhyme sung by Ringo Starr, which nevertheless conceals (not that much, really) masterful work in terms of studio effects. “Good Day Sunshine” veers toward a barrelhouse feel, while “Got To Get Into My Life” becomes a kind of saraband for soul horns.

The record is therefore a work of at times staggering complexity, and it definitively puts to rest any lingering pop ambitions the band once had. With Revolver, the Beatles reach their compositional maturity, delivering one of the most illuminated albums of the era.

Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band

LSD gave shape and colour to our perceptions. We began to understand that there weren't all those borders we imagined existed. And we also understood that we could break down the barriers.

(Paul McCartney)

In the summer of 1966, the Beatles' career seems to have reached a dangerous crossroads. Their studio music has become too complex to play live in venues like a stadium or a club. Wherever they go, the four are greeted by such pandemonium that no one can even hear what they're singing or playing, as if trapped in a giant aviary. What's more, Lennon and co. are forced to backtrack artistically, reverting live to the pop songs most beloved by their teenage audience. And one episode in particular leaves them in no mood to carry on with an exhausting touring career. In the Philippines, the Beatles enrage Imelda Marcos by failing to pay her the respects she expected. Roughed up by her henchmen, the four are furious above all with manager Brian Epstein, whom they accuse of subjecting them to punishing tours. And in the United States things don't improve, thanks to Lennon's remarks about Jesus Christ. The singer's official apology from Chicago does nothing to help: the stadiums are half-empty, with Lennon gleefully amusing himself by shouting obscenities at an audience that can't hear him at all. It's the last straw. At Candlestick Park in San Francisco, on 29 August 1966, the legendary Liverpool foursome play their final concert.

And it's still not over. George Harrison informs Epstein that he wants to leave the group. To convince him to stay, the manager tells all four of his charges that there will be no more tours. The guitarist, taking the chance for a break, heads off to India to study sitar with Ravi Shankar. Meanwhile Lennon, almost out of boredom, decides to take part in the film "How I Won the War", again directed by Richard Lester.

On 9 November 1966, Paul McCartney is involved, along with Tara Browne, in a motorcycle accident. From this, rumours will spread that he died (decapitated) in the crash, and was then replaced by a lookalike. And while the singer is trying to recover, a small event occurs that will, over time, prove fundamental to the future fortunes of the Liverpool four. At the Indica Gallery in London, John Lennon meets for the first time the Japanese avant-garde artist Yoko Ono. A native of Tokyo, Ono hands John a small card: on it is written breathe.

Lennon is particularly drawn to Yoko Ono, but his friend Pete Shotton is certain it's simply an extramarital flirtation. And then there's another album to make, this time with none of the pressure caused by touring the world. The Beatles finally have all the time they need to bring to life what they really have in mind.

And they offer a lysergic taste of it with a new single, released in Britain on 17 February 1967. A hallucinated episode of sonic sleepwalking, "Strawberry Fields Forever" adds another piece to the group's cathedral of psychedelic pop, going even further than the departures of Revolver. The mellotron rocks the song in its arms, before it's soured by the Indian cetra played by Harrison. Described by George Martin as the fruit of a "modern Debussy", the single tears through the veil of pop art of the era, enriched by the closing strings over Ringo Starr's little marching beat. The whole thing is a masterpiece of aesthetics.

If "Strawberry Fields Forever" embodies the sweet dark side of psychedelic drugs translated into music, the following single "Penny Lane" gives the world another fruit of Paul McCartney's genuine talent. The song opens with the airiest of melodies, accompanied by piano and small pastoral flourishes of piccolo and flute. Before expanding further, within the first minute, with an orchestral interlude that by the midpoint becomes almost music-hall fare. "Penny Lane" ultimately embodies McCartney's optimism, his baroque taste filtered through a lysergic sensibility. In short, the two songs together capture much of the peace-and-love culture of the Sixties. Something the epochal album of Sergeant Pepper and his Lonely Hearts Club Band will do even more, and even more triumphantly.

With Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band (Parlophone, 1967), the Beatles manage to reach sonic and compositional heights beyond even their own collective abilities. And indeed, the four from Liverpool seem almost to transform, shedding their artistic skin for the alter-ego group of the Lonely Hearts Club Band. A kind of four-piece orchestra of pop, a genre turned upside down right from the title track, a blend of harder-edged rock and Edwardian variety. It's a whirlwind of pieces assembled in the recording studio, with the four finally free to take all the time they want, with every stage-bound constraint dissolved. The choral boogie lullaby of "With a Little Help from My Friends" (sung by a wistful Ringo Starr) is an initial dive into a parallel dimension, built out of acid and the intimate desire to change the world that would so define the collective imagination of hippie culture. The album's extraordinary inner strength lies precisely in its capture of the minds most eager for openness, instantly becoming a kind of symbol of perceptual rebellion.

Leading the charge is the inspiration of John Lennon, who signs off on the manifesto "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds", one of his harmonies closest to a dream, thanks to a bed of organ that's pure sonic bliss. It's the explosion of Lennon's most surreal and exquisitely literary side, influenced not only by the key texts of psychedelic culture (Alpert, Leary, Huxley) but also by Lewis Carroll's wonderfully odd fables. McCartney, for his part, chooses the path of sparkling pop, in barely veiled rivalry with Brian Wilson's Beach Boys. "Getting Better" is a small triumph of studio craft, with the guitars playing in unison as if opening up a rainbow of notes. The same sparkle is evident in the surreal vaudeville whirl of "Fixing a Hole", enriched by the harpsichord played by George Martin, the so-called fifth Beatle.

The central part of the album belongs entirely to McCartney, who returns to his novelistic songs in the style of "Eleanor Rigby" and "For No One". "She's Leaving Home" is the poignant tale of a misunderstood girl, underscored by an orchestral part that sounds more or less like a film soundtrack. Indeed, the whole record carries a certain cinematic quality, at once loose and bound together like a concept album. The sweet "She's Leaving Home" is matched by its schizoid counterpart "For the Benefit of Mr. Kite", written by Lennon and one of the absolute high points of the work. Martin's arrangement, practically perfect, conjures with its barrel organ a kind of surreal village fair, a Victorian circus narrated by Lennon's grotesque voice.

Then there's George Harrison, who returns once again to his new Indian territory with "Within You, Without You". The song - one of the longest the four had composed up to that point - is nevertheless far more carefully crafted than the guitarist's previous forays into Eastern sounds. The revolution of thought against prevailing materialism is thus accompanied by a rich and sinister arrangement for sitar, tabla and strings. If "Within You, Without You" represents an anomalous detour from the rest of the album, "When I'm Sixty-Four" once again demonstrates McCartney's elastic versatility, writing the listener a kind of acoustic postcard from the beach, a simple little music-hall whirl.

And while "Good Morning Good Morning" breaks loose into a marching whirlwind, "Lovely Rita" plays honky-tonk with a series of treated brass inserts. And yet, these are still just sparkling pop songs. The Lonely Hearts Club Band prepares for its exit with the brief, frantic rhythm of "Reprise". Before announcing the apocalypse to the world over the opening piano notes. When "A Day in the Life" begins, with its reportage-style lyrics and John Lennon's raspy voice, one gets the impression that something is about to end, forever. And it's unclear whether it's the album, acid culture, flower power, or pop music itself. Just before the two-minute mark, a gigantic orchestra begins to rise, in a swirl that's almost frightening. Then, an alarm clock. McCartney falls out of bed and realises he's late. And then he falls asleep and dreams. The orchestra keeps rising, propped up by the marching drums and Lennon's drugged-out wails. "Turn you on", he keeps repeating. But at a certain point the dream ends, while the orchestra keeps climbing, only to give way to a single echoing piano note. The end of everything. With "A Day in the Life", Lennon finds his odyssey within the space of the mind, crafting a song that goes beyond even the mildest conception of popular music, reaching a catharsis he himself would never manage to repeat.

Once the album was finished, the Beatles rushed to Mama Cass Elliott's house, threw open the windows of her Chelsea flat and blasted "Sgt. Pepper" out over the whole neighbourhood. From Chelsea to the whole globe: in the United States, the album's release in June becomes something of a cultural event, with radio stations going wild and a host of famous musicians listening to it day and night. The BBC, however, decides the album's songs are an ode to drugs, and bans them from its airwaves. Some, meanwhile, speak of a defining moment in the history of Western civilisation.

Between walruses and strawberry fields

If you were to plot the Beatles' career on a graph, “Magical Mystery Tour” would definitely be a dip.

(George Martin)

After the release of “Sgt. Pepper”, the Beatles are practically on top of the world. On 25 June 1967 they take part in what is the first live global television broadcast in history. An estimated 400 million viewers tune in. The Beatles want to write something new for the “Our World” broadcast, something political, something that sends a universal message. The song – which will be performed in a typically 60s festive atmosphere – is called “All You Need Is Love”.

“All You Need Is Love” is the choral sarabande that in some ways represents the culmination of the easygoing attitude of the peace-and-love culture of the mid-60s. On one hand. On the other, it's exactly its exasperation, surrounded by flowers, banners and balloons. Lennon writes the song in an almost listless way, drained after the unreachable peak of the Sgt. Pepper album. The orchestra's presence is invasive, with violins, cellos and horns dancing somewhere between soul and, in the finale, a vaudeville-style fox hunt. The song becomes a kind of hippy-flavoured chant, with the phrase love is all you need repeated in an almost hallucinatory way. And the song is in fact about a kind of hallucination, underlining (perhaps unconsciously, perhaps not) the hopeful emptiness of a certain way of seeing the world. Something the Beatles themselves will soon taste, amid more or less imminent internal disputes that Brian Epstein will no longer be able to resolve.

Also because manager Brian Epstein's life is anything but happy at this point. The man, already prone to fits of anger and dark bouts of depression, has taken a hard blow after the Beatles told him – following the events in Manila – that they no longer intend to tour. As if that weren't enough, the four are furious with their manager over certain contractual clauses with EMI/Parlophone that have essentially yielded nothing from the millions of records sold. Epstein had also secured himself a 25 percent cut of the Beatles' record sales, without even mentioning any of this to Lennon and co. The rift is inevitable and sends Epstein into a disastrous mental state. On 27 August 1967, the manager is found dead in his London flat after a lethal cocktail of tranquillisers. It's a terrible blow for the Beatles, who lose one of their main mentors, one of the people capable of holding the group together in its most delicate moments. But Lennon and co. seem unfazed, repeating before the cameras the spiritual teachings of their new guru, Maharishi Mahesh Yogi.

There isn't, however, much time to reflect on Epstein's death: in September, filming begins on the Fab Four's new film, titled “Magical Mystery Tour”. A film, or rather a surreal documentary on the Beatles' creative activity, which draws negative reviews right from the start.

On 8 December, the accompanying soundtrack is released in Britain, which somehow manages to calm down what is often described as a moment of organised chaos.

The album Magical Mystery Tour (Parlophone, 1967) should really be approached via two different listening paths. Namely, whether it's considered as a collection of songs, or as the product of a period of upheaval, following Brian Epstein's sudden death and the difficult task of managing the planet-wide success of the Sgt. Pepper album. The idea of shooting a surreal film about a kind of madcap magical bus tour comes from McCartney, though it then morphs from a hypothetical psychedelic documentary into a jumble of nonsensical references and oversized sea-creature costumes. The title track does in fact mirror the spirit of the film, an on-the-road sarabande that, for the first time, perhaps overdoes the studio effects. Between choruses, maracas and trumpets, it almost seems as if the Beatles are confused, probably dazed by their own critical success. And Paul McCartney, usually razor-sharp when crafting crystalline pop ballads, does seem a little confused too. “The Fool On The Hill” hits the mark with its ethereal, acid-tinged swirl, though the pastoral flutes perhaps become a bit too heavy-handed at a certain point. George Harrison, for his part, is by now completely immersed in the spirit of Indian culture. He crafts a track – “Blue Jay Way” – that does nothing but continually evoke a trance-like state, opened by a blues-tinged instrumental prologue, complete with mellotron flourishes carrying a typically Eastern flavour.

Judging by these tracks alone, no one would ever guess this is the same band that created “A Day In The Life”. “Your Mother Should Know” even grates a little, with its usual music-hall-style nursery rhyme for cheerful old ladies. That is, until a masterpiece like “I Am The Walrus” makes its appearance. The track is written by John Lennon, still grappling with acid and the literary trips of Lewis Carroll. But this time the surreal is put to the service of a serious, politically charged indictment of old, bigoted England. What emerges is a kind of grotesque, schizoid nursery rhyme, perpetually balanced between dream and nightmare. Lennon manages, in an almost hallucinatory way, to build sonic structures as if inside an impossible Escher drawing. And George Martin's arrangement is perfect, meticulously crafted down to the smallest, most anarchic detail. Like the demonic laughter or the searing string flourishes. “I Am The Walrus” thus turns into perhaps the most outlandish and brilliant protest song in the history of rock music. And above all, it rescues, with a miraculous last-minute twist, what would otherwise be a mediocre record. Because the inspiration behind “Strawberry Fields Forever” and “Penny Lane” – already released as a single back in February – doesn't belong to the same moment as the far more fraught post-Brian Epstein, post-Sgt. Pepper, acid-fuelled, Eastern-tinged, dreadful-film period that follows.

McCartney has no choice but to carry on down the pop road, almost chewable in the elastic, untouchable “Hello, Goodbye”. For the rest, drugs continue to shape the four's compositions, as in the acid-dance march of “Baby, You’re A Rich Man”, accompanied by snatches of shehnai and vibraphone. Closing the album is the already-mentioned “All You Need Is Love”.

Magical Mystery Tour is therefore a record that could almost score a 9 thanks to certain timeless songs – “I Am The Walrus” is practically a once-in-a-lifetime experience – but which ultimately loses a few points when judged as new material compared to Sergeant Pepper, rather than as a round-up of songs already released.

At the dawn of 1968, George Harrison travels to Bombay, India, to begin recording sessions for his album “Wonderwall”. The guitarist, enamoured with Indian religion and sounds, is essentially seeking creative space that's denied to him within the Beatles, inevitably overshadowed by the weight of the golden Lennon-McCartney partnership. During the month of February, the four from Liverpool are in Rishikesh, also in India, to begin a meditation course with their guru, Maharishi Mahesh Yogi. But Ringo Starr doesn't seem particularly interested in spiritualism and decides to leave at the start of March. He's followed by an equally fed-up Paul McCartney. Meanwhile, in Britain, the new single “Lady Madonna” is released.

With “Lady Madonna”, McCartney almost tries to bring his band back down to earth, drawing on a classic boogie-woogie piano blues line. And, musically, it's indeed a return to pragmatism, complete with doo-wop harmonies and bursts of saxophone. Few people at the time know that personal and artistic frictions are about to emerge among the four from Liverpool, frictions that will prove to be an incurable wound.

The Ballad of John and Yoko

By the time I met her, the old band was finished. I hadn't realized it at the time, but that's exactly what was happening.

(John Lennon on Yoko Ono)

In March, the single "Lady Madonna" stays at the top of the British charts for only two weeks. In the US it only manages to reach number four. In April 1968, Lennon and Harrison return to England deeply disillusioned by their Eastern experience with Maharishi Mahesh Yogi. Someone in their entourage had in fact suggested to the pair that the guru intended to manipulate them in order to exploit greater media exposure. According to some rumors, the Maharishi had also made sexual advances toward some of the women in the Beatles' circle.

On 15 May 1968, the Beatles announce in New York the formation of Apple Corps, a company resulting from substantial investment by the group. Among the various branches of the media conglomerate are a prestigious boutique in London and, above all, a new label - Apple Records - with the aim of leaving EMI/Parlophone. In reality, a distribution deal still ties EMI to the Beatles, at least until 1975.

Meanwhile John Lennon and Yoko Ono are practically inseparable. In mid-May, they begin working together on the album "Two Virgins". A month later, they travel to Coventry Cathedral to plant a series of acorns for peace. Their relationship is almost all-encompassing, built on deep mutual admiration as well as a strong sexual and artistic partnership. Their first public appearance comes on 18 June: John and Yoko are now one entity.

Yoko Ono's avant-garde talent does nothing but stimulate John Lennon's own surreal streak, since - unlike his bandmates - he possesses a genuine cross-disciplinary artistic flair. On 1 July, her first solo exhibition, titled "You Are Here", opens at the Robert Fraser Gallery.

The Beatles still have an album in progress and a new film, this time a psychedelic cartoon called "Yellow Submarine". Directed by George Dunning, the film opens in London on 17 July and tells the bizarre tale of an imaginary land called Pepperland. The animated film - made at the behest of Epstein, who wanted to close out the contract with United Artists - is nevertheless not well received by critics, even though it manages to capture the fantastical imagination of the period's counterculture.

On 30 July 1968, another alarm bell rings for the four lads from Liverpool, a sign of particularly tense times ahead. The Apple boutique closes, after losing a considerable amount of money. As if that weren't enough, Cynthia Lennon begins divorce proceedings, bringing before the judge unmistakable evidence of John's adulterous behavior.

Little time is left for music, but on 30 August the single "Hey Jude" is released, which will soon become the best-selling Beatles song in the United States.

"Hey Jude" is another McCartney composition, yet another product of his brilliant, tireless exploration of a certain kind of songwriting - simple in its immediacy, built note by note like a sprawling cathedral of 20th-century popular music. The track, initially a piano ballad, slowly evolves over its full seven minutes, simmering in gospel-pop sauce toward a wild choral finale, amid extended na-na-nas and orchestral flourishes in George Martin's classic symphonic style.

Despite its length, "Hey Jude" is a huge hit in the United States, staying at number one for nine weeks.

The song's success, however, does nothing to heal the increasingly obvious rifts within the group. Recording sessions for the new album are almost an ordeal, given the overbearing presence of Yoko Ono, who by now follows Lennon like a shadow. The artist from the Land of the Rising Sun pushes John toward avant-garde musical territory, as in the schizoid delirium of "Revolution 9" - a track the other three "beetles" have no intention of including on the record. But beyond that one episode, it's the general coldness with which Ono is received that irritates Lennon, who would, in effect, like to make his new muse a de facto member of the Liverpool group. And Yoko doesn't hold back her criticism of the work done in the studio, at times quite harshly.

The White Album

By then it was just me with a backing band, and Paul with a backing band.

(John Lennon)

The Beatles (Apple Records, 1968), better known as the White Album, is a sprawling double record that lays bare, with no mercy whatsoever, the present reality of a band torn apart, riven internally by conflicts that are by now beyond repair. The tight-knit unity of its opening track – the supersonic Beach Boys-style boogie of "Back In The Ussr" – is nothing more than a kind of smokescreen, roughened up by Paul McCartney's unusually booming voice. The Beatles are a band adrift, sawn into four by their own charisma, by a Japanese woman, by a dead manager, and above all by completely divergent artistic ambitions. John Lennon speaks a musical language that's almost alien to the rest of the group, starting with the child-like fingerpicking of "Dear Prudence" before immediately moving into the schizoid orchestral beat of "Glass Onion". Paul McCartney, meanwhile, tries to inject new life into his songwriting, often stumbling into memorable pop numbers like the daft ska of "Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da" and compositions as irresistible as they are wry, vaudeville-paced snapshots of English bourgeois life, like "Martha My Dear".

It's no coincidence that "Martha My Dear" is a track featuring McCartney alone, completely isolated in the studio, far from the other three bandmates. Bandmates like George Harrison, who is looking increasingly toward rock-blues territory, egged on by his friend Eric Clapton, masterful on guitar in the splendid rock ballad "While My Guitar Gently Weeps". Harrison, however, is certainly less gifted than the miraculous duo, and also carves out some sonic spaces of questionable merit, such as the harpsichord madrigal "Piggies" and the Indian-flavored litany "Long, Long, Long".

The White Album is like an attic full of memories belonging to four creative personalities now drifting apart, steeped in a persistent, pitiless aura of chilling sadness. A sadness that overwhelms the listener as the fingerpicking of "Blackbird" begins, a dazzling, unrepeatable example of folk-pop in the old Mersey Beat style. But above all when Lennon, uncharacteristically, bares his heart on "Julia", a harrowing acoustic intimacy dedicated to the mother he never really had. Lennon is probably the true star of the record, aided by the not always welcome (but at times illuminating) presence of Yoko Ono.

Freed from every constraint, John can give full vent to all his twisted creativity, signing first and foremost "Happiness Is A Warm Gun", a suite in under three minutes, poised between folk-blues and doo-wop. A hysterical vocal that rises and shifts according to the whims and inspirations of its composer. The same composer (or author) who, further on in the record, will put his name to the drowsy blues of "Yer Blues" and the dissonant acidity of "Everybody Has Something To Hide Except For Me And My Monkey".

It's a struggle already present on the records before The Beatles, even if it was previously veiled by a strong air of cohesion. The White Album brings the real differences at play to the surface, at times with extreme cynicism. While McCartney attempts the path of pastoral folk on "Mother Nature's Son" (a kind of creative answer to "Julia"?), Lennon delivers yet another of his unreachable masterpieces. The bluesy & slow rhythm of "Revolution 1" later morphs into the avant-garde orgy of "Revolution 9", the deviant, schizoid product of a sound collage that turns into music what William S. Burroughs was theorizing in literature, somewhere amid the concrete minimalism of Cage and Stockhausen. Gloriously unlistenable, "Revolution 9" is preceded by the mournful "Cry, Baby, Cry", a deranged explosion of Sibelius, unstoppable loops and sinister visions of a drug that's becoming less and less of a friend.

With the whole project tied to "Revolution", Lennon also puts his new political ideas on display, encouraged by Yoko Ono's sexology, as an alternative to the Maoist movement and the student counterculture's left wing. A proliferation of uncomfortable words that alarms McCartney himself, worried about the extremist drift taking hold within the band.

But is McCartney's idea to carry on as a rock and roll band ("Birthday" and the extreme "Helter Skelter"), or to get comfortable with unforgettable – if flabby – bourgeois orchestrations like "Honey Pie"? What's certain is that Lennon has no intention of sparing anyone, including the Maharishi Yogi, who's targeted in the sinuous electricity of "Sexy Sadie".

Quarrels aside, attic of personal memories aside, the white double album is a record that's gloriously coherent in its very inconsistency, a pulsing, unmatchable testament to a band that seems like a rock supernova on the verge of exploding. Destined to remain forever fixed in the firmament of twentieth-century popular music.

After the release of the "White Album", it's increasingly all about John and Yoko. The two become tabloid fixtures in Britain, after first being fined for cannabis possession. When the album "Two Virgins" comes out at the end of November, a scandal erupts over its cover, on which Lennon and Ono pose completely naked. In early December, the pair take part in the Rock And Roll Circus TV special put on by their friends/rivals the Rolling Stones. On December 18, at the Royal Albert Hall in London, they're seen appearing inside a white bag.

Meanwhile, rehearsals for a new album continue amid cold silences and sudden flashes of anger. George Harrison, worn out, walks out of the Twickenham sessions at the dawn of 1969.

The band's artistic morale certainly isn't helped by the release – on January 17 in Britain – of the album Yellow Submarine (Apple Records, 1969). The record, soundtrack to the animated film of the same name, is little more than a mere stopgap in the group's discography, perhaps a way to exorcise the tensions, and certainly made up of tracks already recorded in the past that simply needed somewhere to go. "Yellow Submarine" and "All You Need Is Love" are, after all, singles already heard back in 1966 and 1967. What's left that's actually new on the album is a couple of listless, sing-song performances from Harrison, the dirge-like "Only A Northern Song" (written to fulfil contractual obligations) and the never-ending "It's All Too Much". Things fare better when the reins are held by the Lennon-McCartney duo, who launch into a dark, acid barrelhouse number, "Hey Bulldog". Let's just skip over the silliness of "All Together Now".

On the album's second side, a series of pieces with no apparent sense to them, somewhere between raga inflections, Disney-esque openness and psychedelic-orchestral verve very much in the spirit of "Sgt. Pepper".

Yellow Submarine is and will remain a record for die-hard fans, the product of one of the many creative whims of a band in constant ferment.

The Rooftop Concert

You've been out playing on the roof again and you shouldn't have, your mum's going to have you arrested.

(Paul McCartney in “Get Back” as played on Savile Row)

The recording sessions for The Beatles return to everyday reality a band that is worn out, torn apart from within. Paul McCartney tries desperately to keep the crumbling ship afloat, suggesting the other three beetles get back to a purely rock and roll dimension. In other words, to return to the stage and play live. Not a tour, but a filmed hour-long concert, to be staged at the Roundhouse in Camden Town, London. Lennon, Harrison and Starr don't seem particularly enthusiastic, and greet McCartney's proposal with icy disbelief. But on 30 January 1969, the four lads from Liverpool climb onto the roof of the Apple building on Savile Row to stage what is the first (and then, once again, the last) concert since the 1966 American tour. Five songs – including the new “Get Back”, “Dig A Pony” and “I've Got A Feeling” – for a total of forty-two minutes of performance. McCartney seems thrilled: rediscovering the spirit of rock and roll without being surrounded by hysterical, screaming crowds. Playing on a rooftop with no advance notice, a kind of 20th-century cultural happening. At the end of the show, John Lennon declares himself confident that the audition went well. Just before the London police arrive to put an end to the racket unleashed in the middle of the city's lunch break.

But the unity rediscovered during the rooftop concert is just a utopian flash. In early February, the four get together to decide who should be put in charge of handling the numerous financial problems plaguing Apple. Lennon, Harrison and Starr are in favour of Allen Klein, already manager of the Rolling Stones. But McCartney opposes the choice of Klein, bringing in the firm Eastman & Eastman as his advisor. The result is a deep rift between the four musicians from Liverpool.

Meanwhile, in March, Lennon marries Yoko Ono in Gibraltar, formalising through marriage a bond that was already solid in many respects. From 25 to 31 March, the two hold a bed-in for peace at the Hilton hotel in Amsterdam. Lennon is increasingly devoted to spreading a universal message of peace to the world, turning himself into a sort of guru with a long beard and round glasses.

On 11 April 1969, the single “Get Back” is released in Britain. Written by McCartney, “Get Back” draws on the country blues that had made Canned Heat famous, built on insistent drums and mournful guitars. Driven by Billy Preston's soulful electric piano, the track had already been played during the Savile Row rooftop concert, and ranks among the most R&B of all the Liverpool band's songs.

On 30 May comes “The Ballad Of John And Yoko”, which curiously features only Lennon and McCartney (ever more rivals) splitting all instrumental and vocal duties. The song embodies Lennon's vision, by now light years away from the rest of the Beatles, absorbed into the narcissistic and at times cruel personality of Yoko Ono. Built on a rhythm poised between rock and exotic boogie, the single strays from Lennon's usual surreal standards, driven by maracas, slide guitars and falsetto trills.

The apparent light-heartedness of “The Ballad Of John And Yoko” actually conceals a rift between its main author and the rest of the band that is by now beyond repair. In early June, Lennon records the pacifist anthem “Give Peace A Chance” in Montreal, before returning to Britain and starting to use heroin on a regular basis, in his new flat at Tittenhurst Park.

At the end of September, the new album by a band that will probably no longer exist is released on British soil.

With Abbey Road (Apple Records, 1969), the Beatles prove to themselves and to the entire music world that they are still subject to constant artistic change, pushing towards new sonic territory even while walking four separate paths. The album's underlying sunniness is in fact only apparent, dazzled by the sweet fingerpicking of “Here Comes The Sun”, another brilliant compositional feat from George Harrison, revitalised by his friendship with Eric Clapton. The song is simple, an almost impressionistic touch of melodic folk, and in some ways seems to wipe away any lingering bitterness within the band. But the handclaps are merely a studio flourish, a thin disguise for friendships now ravaged by fame and stress.

John Lennon is by now like a solo artist, a thinker and musician unto himself. The dark, distant blues of “Come Together” is clear, epoch-making proof of this. The song is perhaps one of the guitarist's last embraces of the counterculture of the era, with its syncopated impact and its nature poised between the sexual and the political. The structure of “Come Together”, somewhere between rap and psychedelia, is embraced by the youth underground, on the hunt for new gurus steeped in drugs and liberated sexuality. Another Lennon-penned masterpiece is “I Want You (She's So Heavy)”, a sort of suite running over seven minutes that moves from initial leaden, schizoid atmospheres into a refined latin-jazz-flavoured run, before cyclically returning to an apocalyptic scenario in which Lennon's voice leads the rest of the band through heavy rises and falls.

“Come Together” is immediately answered by “Something”, George Harrison's new ballad, which moves smoothly over classically-tinged harmonies, gradually building on the drums' tribal pulse and the guitarist's raw vocal, before cutting through with a gorgeous solo.

McCartney, for his part, puts his stratospheric compositional talent to use in search of new “cute” ways of making music – which is also to say, of selling it. The hustle and bustle of “Maxwell's Silver Hammer” chases studio perfection, between anvils, little organs and synthesizers. The result is not so far removed from those vaudeville-scented numbers he's always been so fond of. In “Oh! Darling”, on the other hand, he seems to be having the time of his life aping the classic stylistic tics of certain 1950s doo-wop numbers, complete with Little Richard-style vocalising. A parody, perhaps, but performed brilliantly by a band capable of this too. And of much more, as shown by the long medley – also known as “The Big One” – that dominates the whole of side two of Abbey Road. Probably the true swan song of the Beatles, an imposing collage of different sounds that gathers up, with aching nostalgia, everything the Liverpool band achieved in a few dazzling years of activity. McCartney's mournful piano opens the initial “You Never Give Me Your Money”, a small suite about the recent financial disputes that have practically torn the band apart from within. After a few minutes the ballad turns into a bell-driven boogie, before slowly fading away amid bursts of electric guitar, unsettling vocal harmonies and clattering sounds. The yawning, ethereal “Sun King” then appears on the horizon, sung by Lennon in a strange, Torremolinos-beach-style Spanish. The medley suddenly speeds up, first with the brass-band arrangement of “Mean Mr. Mustard” and then with the Who-style riff of “Polythene Pam”. Strongly championed by McCartney, the long medley tells, through pieces of just over a minute each, the entire story of the band, starting with the issue of screaming fans in the choral “She Came In Through The Bathroom Window” and continuing with a sort of prophecy (the heartrending lullaby of “Golden Slumbers” plus the nursery-rhyme “Carry That Weight”): the four Beatles will forever be bound together by the weight of their immortal fame, doomed like Sisyphus to carry an artistic boulder on their shoulders.

Then comes “The End”, a clattering instrumental rock and roll number enriched by unison voices and fuzzy guitars, announcing the band's final message: “And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make”. A flash of fingerpicking – “Her Majesty” – and the album is over, an unmatched sonic testament from a band that history will never see equalled.

I Me Mine (Four of Us)

The Beatles have left the Beatles, but no one wants to be the one to say the party's over.

(Paul McCartney)

In 1969, the most serious quarrel yet breaks out within the already devastated Beatles. It revolves around Northern Songs, the music publishing company that owns the rights to the Lennon-McCartney catalogue. Dick James, its founder, decides to sell the entire stake to the London conglomerate ATV Music, triggering a kind of battle for control of the publishing house between John and Paul. Previously unknown facts come to light, such as the fact that McCartney held a greater number of song credits. Lennon grows anxious and, in his rush to close the deal, lets slip the chance to take control of the entire package together with his bandmate and partner. The rights to the Beatles' songs end up entirely in the hands of ATV Music.

The Fab Four from Liverpool are by now divided on practically everything. Lennon carries on with his solo career, first recording the single "Cold Turkey" and then "Instant Karma!". On November 25th he returns his MBE honor to protest the human tragedies in Biafra and Vietnam, and vents all his frustration over the commercial failure of "Cold Turkey" itself, frowned upon by the moral guardians of the day because of its subject matter (drugs). Both McCartney and Ringo Starr are meanwhile at work on their respective solo albums, "McCartney" and "Sentimental Journey".

By now the split is real, lacking only the official confirmation that comes on April 10, 1970: it's Paul McCartney who takes the burden upon himself, announcing to the world that the group has definitively broken up. In fact, he states in a press conference that he has left the band, while Apple's press office points out that the Beatles could remain inactive for years. The entire music scene is left deeply shaken, given the recent release of the masterpiece Abbey Road and the acclaimed single "Let It Be". A song destined to appear on one final studio album, which the four of them had been preparing since 1968-1969, constantly reworked amid their disputes. It's American producer Phil Spector who takes the album back in hand, before releasing it in May 1970.

Strongly championed by Lennon, Phil Spector gives Let It Be (Apple Records, 1970) a controversial and contradictory bittersweet flavor, heightening - it's not clear whether for better or worse - an already deeply desolate underlying character, torn apart by internal disputes that would in time become irreconcilable. The album is the swan song before the swan song, that Abbey Road which actually brings down the curtain on the fabulous Liverpool group's career.

The Beatles, working on the songs for Let It Be, are heavily affected by their own troubles as a collective, ultimately crashing against their own sonic grandeur. "Two Of Us" opens this last go-round, turning back the clock to those Everly Brothers-style harmonies that once accompanied the early influences of Lennon and McCartney. Unfortunately, the two of them are now living separate lives under the same roof, unable to go beyond the sonic jest of "Dig A Pony", anchored to the now-posthumous celebration of the death of all right-thinking taboos.

It takes Lennon's finest psychedelic inspiration to reach the album's first peak. Recorded roughly two years earlier, "Across The Universe" is another brief acid trip, as chant-like and ethereal as the contemporaneous "I Am The Walrus" is schizoid and out of control. Unfortunately, Spector's arrangements partly distort the song, with a dragging wah-wah and an almost Disney-like atmosphere as backdrop. And here one senses that the album could have been something else entirely - again, perhaps for better, perhaps for worse - without the producer's work. A striking example is "The Long And Winding Road", the last genuinely poignant portrait bearing Paul McCartney's signature. Spector's hand grows heavier here, partly gifting the song with a syrupy orchestral score, complete with Mantovani-style strings and National Guard-style choirs. The song, born from an attempt to court commercial and radio appeal, therefore fails to present itself with the usual, incomparable sonic immediacy. Paul's excellent original intentions are thus partly distorted, like a stunning impressionist painting obscured by a heavy baroque frame. Harrison, meanwhile, does little this time to enrich the record, with two lackluster blues-inflected performances, "I Me Mine" and the swinging "For You Blue".

Things are decidedly better when Lennon and McCartney try to go back to their roots, letting loose in the reckless rock and roll of "The One After 909" or in the sublime soul-electric landscape (with a precious piano part from Billy Preston) of "I've Got A Feeling". And in the end the album still delivers the crystalline talent of its authors, starting with the title track, a McCartney piano ballad surrounded by an aura fit for a pop deity. Finally, "Get Back", the very last motorized manifesto of Beatles rock and roll, probably one of the last rare occasions on which the Beatles find themselves playing as one, with real feel, for the simple desire to do so. What comes out is a gutsy, spot-on song, performed live on the rooftop with Lennon saying: "I hope we passed the audition". Generally speaking, absolutely yes.

Outro

Fake Beatlemania

It's 1979. The Clash of Joe Strummer and Mick Jones release the seminal "London Calling". And, in the album's opening song, the strummer belts out at the top of his lungs: "This phony Beatlemania has bitten the dust". After all, this is the same Strummer who, a few years earlier, had firmly denied certain dinosaurs of music any access through the rebellious gates of newborn punk. "No Elvis, Beatles or Rolling Stones in 1977". But the Fab Four were there in 1977, just as they still are now, in 1979. One need only consider how closely the Strummer/Jones duo resembles the Lennon/McCartney pairing. Just transplanted into a different England, into a different kind of revolt, at a different tempo of chords. Even though there's no doubt that demonic songs like "Helter Skelter" taught something to the '70s.

And yet, one could be swayed by what Strummer and his bandmates were railing against: the idea that the Beatles matter only as much as the great bands of the past, unable to break free from their own colorful, loving, psychedelic era. How can you separate Lennon's schizoid lyrics from his daily intake of hallucinogenic drugs? From forgotten gurus like Leary and Alpert? From a '68-style taste for making music meant for a kind of generational awakening, built on psychic sexuality, or an eroticized mind? "Because the Beatles' value," George Martin once said, "lies in being the voice of the people, in being the expression of the music of their time". Well, maybe it really is that simple. Martin again: "The music we made in the '60s was the best of that period". Setting aside Bob Dylan, the Doors, the Velvet Underground, Jimi Hendrix. What McCartney and co. effectively do is transform, in a short span of time, into genuine generational icons, the ultimate representatives of their incendiary era. The Beatles' music becomes the music of the '60s, if only for its colors, arrangements, and flashy clothes. And for slogans like "All You Need Is Love". "If we're talking about contemporary music," Martin went on, "we have to talk about Boulez, but also about the Beatles, and I maintain that the Beatles were the most important composers of contemporary music. And as such they should be appreciated".

Here, the Fab Four go beyond the status of generational heroes, since their songs are so damn universal. Lennon, McCartney, Harrison and Starr bring to life a creature quite different from their individual artistic personalities, which were inevitably destined to clash. But it's no accident at all that an album like Let It Be manages to shine despite the overblown arrangements and an underlying weariness born of anger, envy, and the desire to go it alone. And one can - rightly so, even - criticize their first, adolescent rock and roll albums.

One can argue over whether Sgt. Pepper's deserves a slightly higher or lower score than Abbey Road. One can likewise favor Lennon's schizoid flair over McCartney's crystalline talent, or vice versa. What remains is a group that turned rock into a dominant form of expression in the 20th century. Not bad at all.

To Daniela

Ride the wave of great music

Add OndaRock to your favorite sources on Google Discover. Don't miss our reviews, milestones and latest news straight in your feed.

Follow on Google