Get Back.
How I watched/heard this, made a big difference to proceedings.
I played the audio though a decent Bluetooth speaker that was right behind my head as I sat on the sofa. It made me feel like I was actually in the room with them a lot of the time. At one point as I sat strumming my own Epiphone Casino (same model as Lennon’s which he uses a lot in this film) John is at the piano as George shouts over trying to tune up. “John, can you give us an E please” Lennon obliges tapping out the requested note and I also tune my guitar to the same note as he plays it over and over. This, dear friends, is what someone like me, calls a ‘moment’. I momentarily got in tune with John Lennon.
So, where to start?
I’m late to the love-in, other writers have already contributed a lot of words about Peter Jacksons three-part Beatles documentary on Disney+, but for what it’s worth and goes without saying, financially it’s worth nothing to me, here’s my thoughts.
It’s January 1969, a date which even my flimsy grasp of basic mathematics, tells me, is a long time ago. Bit of context then, as the cameras rolled while EVERYBODY smoked, it was a mere 24 years since the end of WW2. Ciggies cost less than 25p, a financial statistic that, if you were a Beatle meant nothing, but let’s face it, we weren’t, were we? By 1994 ciggies cost £2.50 and we still weren’t The Beatles, and neither were this shower of shite.
24 years ago, from today, the UK singles charts looked a bit like this.
1. East17 Stay another Day
2. Maria Carey Some vomit-inducing bland shite
3. Boyzone. See above
4. Mighty Morphin Power Rangers. Fuck off
5. Celine Dion. See Maria Carey
6. Jimmy Nail. Crocodile Shoes Newcastle are going down mix
7. Rednex. Cotton-eye Joe Dolce is a wanker.
8. Zig and Zag. I’m being fisted by Norman Lamont
9. Bon Jovi. All I want for Christmas is a Dukla Prague away kit.
10.Lois Armstong. We have all the time in the world.
Which raises the question that Louis Armstrong aside, it makes you wonder why the ‘Fabs even bothered eh? Clearly none of the above were listening.
Anyway, we apparently live in hope and perhaps it was exactly this kind of major-label garbage cluttering up the post brit-pop charts that persuaded the youthful minds of Peter Doherty, Carl Barrat, Alex Turner etc. to eventually have a go at attacking the ears and brains of the country’s youth with some poetry and attitude?
Anyway, 1969, the smoking, you can tell a lot by the manner in which people sucked on the demon weed.
“And curse sir Walter Raleigh, he was such a stupid git”
I’m so tired.
The Beatles.
Lennon and Harrison seem committed to it, in fact one of my favourite smoking details in the almost nine hours of serious lung-busting ciggie harassment, possibly goes unnoticed by most people, but those of us with an addict brain, may well spot it.
Episode 2 and having decamped from the cavernous (see what I did there?) atmospheric blackhole of the Twickenham studios, to the much groovier and cosy basement of their own Apple building, the lads begin to get down to some real work. The arrival of Billy Preston on keys has re-energised them all after a ‘bit’ of a false start at the West London location. Admittedly the early versions of Don’t let me Down and Two of Us are the kind of ‘false-start’ 99.9% of todays bands could only dream of, but hey. Oh yeah, All Things must pass is also part of the false start, so obviously it’s not really a wasted few days there but anyway.
And Don’t let me Down.
And Across the Universe. During which as McCartney sings “Nothings gonna change my world”
Lennon quips
“I wish it fucking would”
Make of that what you will, but it is indicative of the atmosphere that visibly hangs over them all at times. Clearly there are drugs being used, not that original director Poshboy Lindsay-Hogg films any of course, but yeah, there’s deffo some ‘morning after the night before vibes going on, a lot of them.
Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah false starts which weren’t and the smoking.
OK fucks sake it’s NOT a false start but by the time they do settle into the basement in central London and Billy Preston’s energy illuminates’ proceedings, it’s fair to say the Beatles are absolutely being The Beatles, rather than four ridiculously talented but in a bad mood so I quit (George) scousers.
(Better add, The Long and Winding Road, to the not false-start at all, Twickenham sessions.) You see where I’m going with this right?
And Let it Be.
And Get Back.
These works of genius are actually interrupting the point I’m trying to get to about Lennon and his ciggie habit, which probably means nothing but just in case it does, what I’m trying to get to is this. Mid-take somewhere between days 8–16, Lennon is halfway through a ciggie when Paul shouts, they’re ready to actually record the part. John, chips his ciggie (Dunhill for those of us who notice stuff like this) rests the half-smoked fag on the packet, lays down a stunning guitar part in one take then picks up the half-smoked ciggie, relights it and finishes it. You can take the boy out of Liverpool, but you can’t take the Liverpool out of the boy and let’s just remind ourselves, at this stage of their career, they are all still under 30. Lennon is the oldest at a wrinkle-inducing 28 years old.
Ringo smokes ‘cos he’s bored and usually the last to add his part to the songs they’re writing.
McCartney smokes seemingly as an affectation rather than like his life depended on it, yet it becomes clear that these sessions are being driven by Paul with the same devotion that Harrison and Lennon bring to their tobacco habits.
All of which makes no sense really, but I thought I’d mention it anyway, maybe you can read something into it?
The clothes are, of course Fab, at least as far as the band and fans go, producer Glyn Jones often resembles a cooler version of Keith Richards. George Martin, now clearly the ‘grown-up’ in all this, has obviously replaced Mr Epstein) as they lads affectionally call the recently deceased ex-manger) in the ‘father-figure’ stakes. Road manager Mal Evans dresses like a geography teacher, but his devotion is clear at all times.
If you’ve ever been in a band, or spent time in the company of such unfortunates, the between-song chat is just the same as it always is although I think it’s unlikely that many bands these days would ask their roadies to get someone from the nearby shoe-shop in Bond Street to pop over and deliver some black slip-ons size eight please (George).
It’s hard to contextualise the work that’s being done musically, such is the likely familiarity with the songs this four-week ‘experiment’ delivers. What is clear, to me as a songwriter, is that Lennon is actually a much better guitarist than I’d ever really noticed. I’m reminded that McCartney seems to have an orchestra in his head all the time and can conjure a melody up with the same casual detachment he brings to his smoking. (Sorry to bang on about the fags again)
George’s guitar parts are, by this point in his life pretty fucking cosmic, as are his fury boots and Ringos red coat is truly magnificent. Ringo, once ‘apparently’ described as, not even the best drummer in The Beatles, is a very good drummer with one drum fill. But it’s a good one and he uses it well.
By the time we get to part 3 and the boys have agreed that the ‘show’ will be best suited performed up on their own roof rather than in North Africa which was one of the (many) stupid idea director Michael Lindsay-Hogg had come up with, it’s clear that between the ongoing personal dynamics, the between song, stoned AF meandering conversations about nothing in particular and some actually really significant nods to what the future holds, they have of course written another album. It’s another Beatles album though, so yeah if you’re a fan, you’ll enjoy this documentary immensely and if you’re not, you’re probably not reading my thoughts on it so yeah, it’s all good.
The famous gig on the roof, if listened to as I did through state-of-the-art speakers, is absolutely immense. Paul’s bass is grooving and at times seems to growl its appreciation of John and Georges guitars, which despite John complaining that his fingers have got too cold to play a chord, seem to be note-perfect and when driven by Ringos backbeat, all combine to remind us that despite being a ‘studio-band’, they were still a ridiculously brilliant live act too.
That this performance turned out to be the last time they played to a live audience, is perhaps a melancholy postscript to an otherwise brilliant film.
It ‘almost’ made me want to start smoking again.
Ps. The attitude of the old Bill at the end of the film is a reminder that not everyone was stinking of patchouli oil and getting laid by nubile ‘dollybirds etc. Have you ever seen so much resentment portrayed on such a young face?