YOU'VE GOT TO HIDE YOUR SONG AWAY!
The Beatles just recorded Paul's worst song ever. Will it be on August's "Help!" soundtrack? LUCY TANAKA uncovers the tape -- and learns the truth.
I’ve spent weeks in denial, trying everything short of astral projection to get C.J. to ring up Brian Epstein and put a stop to it. I’ve stared into Paul’s dewy doe-eyes over dinner and very nearly whispered, No, Paul. Not you. Not this.
As you might imagine, one of the occupational hazards of being The Beatles Magazine’s Paul McCartney bureau chief is reconciling with the fact that Paul is, well…pretty much perfect. Those dreamboat lashes haunt me nightly. That jawline could julienne carrots, if he’d only let me near it (or his kitchen). And don’t get me started on the melodies, the ones that tumble effortlessly from his frets like coins from a slot machine. By God, he’s good.
But it is my solemn duty to report a bit of truly dreadful news. Paul McCartney – The Cute Beatle, The Boss-on-the-Bass, The Best Barnet in the Business -- has written a clanger. A proper dog’s breakfast. A tune so diabolical, even the unflappable Ringo might have flapped.
And yet the Beatles have been rumored to be ploughing ahead with its release on August 6th, as part of the Help! soundtrack. They’ve laid down a record-shattering 22 takes of it, each one more baffling than the last. What in the name of Merseybeat hath Paul wrought?
Yes, dear readers -- faithful fans of our beloved Macca – this one’s a howler. A real toe-curler. A true minging number. So bad, in fact, that I propose we rise up as one, grab our placards and stage a proper knees-up outside EMI. We hereby demand this monstrosity to be un-released, un-heard, and un-remembered.
***
Twenty-two takes. That’s not a demo -- that’s a crime scene.
To seasoned Paul-watchers like myself, this wasn’t a total shocker. Lately, McCartney has been more wrapped up in, shall we say, extracurriculars – namely, his glamorous bird, Jane Asher, and his newfound fondness for, ahem, Mary Jane – than with knocking out pop masterpieces. Meanwhile, John, now a reluctantly married man, has been on an absolute tear, creatively speaking. He’s been regularly cranking out moody, musically daring numbers like Ticket to Ride, the Dylan-drenched You’ve Got to Hide your Love Away, and, of course, that raw, brilliant, pleading anthem that manages to sum up his marriage, fame and his existential dread in under three minutes: Help!
Paul, alas, didn’t think he needed help in the songwriting department. Others – especially those with eyes and ears -- might beg to differ, had they peered over his shoulder at the latest lyrics he’d scrawled on a napkin. A paper product better suited, in my humble opinion, for mopping a sweaty brow – or, if we’re being blunt, something a bit lower.
Paul met the next morning for tea. As he devoured a crumpet, Paul passed me his latest napkin. “Have a gander at my new A side!” he chirped. I grabbed it, giddy. Moments later, having read the latest set of lyrics to the last, I resisted the urge to sneeze into them and save humanity.
Instead, I copied the evidence into my notebook. Want a peek? Brace yourself.
“That Means a Lot” – Paul McCartney 2/6/65
A friend says that your love won't mean a lot
And you know that your love is all you've got
At times things are so fine and at times they're not
But when she says she loves you, that means a lot
A friend says that a love is never true
But you know that this don't apply to you
A touch can mean so much when it's all you've got
And when she says she loves you, that means a lot
Love can be deep inside, love can be suicide
Can't you see you can't hide what you feel when it's real
A friend says that your love won't mean a lot
And you know that your love is all you've got
A touch can mean so much when it's all you've got
But when she says she loves you, that means a lot
Can't you see? (Yeah), Can't you see? (Yeah)
Can't you see? (Yeah), Can't you see? (Yeah)
Can't you see? (Yeah), Can't you see? (Whoa)
Can't you see? (Yeah), Can't you see? (Yeah)
Can't you see...
Sadly, I can see. And then Paul hauled me over to the EMI control room for a listen. Tragically, I could now hear.
“It’s really good,” I lied. “It has energy. Verve, even!”
I felt bad fibbing, especially once I’d later heard John’s straightforward assessment. I’m reliably informed that John had already termed the song balderdash, labeled it malarkey, referred to it as poppycock, and in a rare moment of brutal honesty, called it codswallop.
But Paul seemed chuffed enough, and set off to meet Jane for a pint. I was at my wit’s end. Would this be the end of the Beatles – just as I’d just settled into my plush new assignment?
***
I needn’t have panicked. One month later, at a recording session on March 30th, the boys gave the song another go — recording two more takes before binning it for good.
“It’s a real piece of garbage,” was John’s final word on the subject.
Paul offered his own song a gentler verdict. “Bit of a botch-up,” he admitted, with a shrug. “It wasn’t quite right.”
Don’t lose faith in Paul, though. He assured me he’s got a groovier single up his sleeve.
“It’s called Maxwell’s Silver Hammer,” Paul confided with pride. “It’s a corker. When John hears it, he’s gonna do cartwheels down Abbey Road!”
-30-
Guess this one prefigured the Wings songbook….