Hey Jude-Album or Greatest Hits Collection?

        Once upon a time, when music and the music industry were in a relatively innocent state of cooperation, there came a group of four individuals who, after a period of approximately eight years, called their organization's activities to a halt, much to the dismay of enthusiasts around the world. In the wake of their absence, a capitalist monk who was transcribing their great works saw fit to collect nine short pieces and one extended one and present them as a final, posthumous reiteration from the group itself. This group was The Beatles, and the collection in question is "Hey Jude."

God, I love this album. It isn't technically an album, however, since a record album is usually the presentation of a collection of new sonic and lyrical ideas never before released to the public, sometimes with the effect that they present an overall thematic through-line. It is also a flagship "product" from the folks who have put it together. Usually, when cataloguing a band's output, the studio album is an official thing, the live album is of secondary importance and often not counted as official, and the greatest hits album is basically a post-project recruitment brochure. "Hey Jude" contains ten songs, all of which had appeared previously as either 45 rpm singles or their b-sides, and so at first blush it seems fair to consider it as a "hits album." As a result of this status, however, it was allowed to wither away, out of print, supplanted by subsequent collections which, spread over two or three CDs, replicate the "Hey Jude" collection. Except briefly (and perhaps not entirely legally, but that's a whole different story) in Japan, there has been no post-cassette tape release of the collection "Hey Jude."

When it was initially released in 1970, fans treated it as an album, not a greatest hits collection. Fans in the UK, confounded by the collection's release in every other major Beatles market but its native homeland's would struggle to order it from Australia, Canada and the US. Eventually, since people for eight years had persisted in lamenting its absence, EMI re-released the collection to the United Kingdom in 1979. I don't think I know of any other collection of "previously-released music" that has received so much loyalty.

Another element about "Hey Jude" which points toward canonization is its cover, which merely has a photo of the Beatles and no words. This is in keeping with their late-sixties releases which would play games with the common marketing practices of the day. The fan-named "The White Album" was released with a stark-white cover and only the subtly raised off-white lettering of "The Beatles" on the right side of its face. "Revolver" mentions the Beatles by name in near-microscopic lettering on the back cover, but not at all upon its showpiece front. Abbey Road was initially released without either the band name or the title appearing on the front. But they were the most popular band in the world. No one needed to be told it was a Beatles album if their picture was on it. No one needed a title if their name was on it. And apparently, no one needed either their name or the title on the cover if there was adequate pictorial representation, or even just a whisper in the press about it. These stunts are commonplace in music marketing nowadays, but back in the late sixties it was a cocky and original statement: Who cares what it's called, or what its cover tells us? It's a Beatles album!

So what part does an audience's interpretation play in how an anthology of music is classified? For all I know, Pink Floyd's "The Wall" could be a collection of completely unrelated throwaway songs that they just stuck together and released because the band couldn't work with each other, though they still needed an income. Yet we are expected to listen to "The Wall" as if it were an opera, the music orchestrated only to serve the over-arching story. And on the other hand, is "Aerosmith's Greatest Hits" more of an album than "Get a Grip?" I'm inclined to say yes, although perhaps that's more because I don't like acknowledging the latter at all. At any rate, there is a lot of wiggle-room in these definitions, and I feel strangely passionate about exploring them at this juncture.

When I drop the needle of my Technics SL-M1 into the groove of this well-used vinyl disc, the strains of "Can't Buy Me Love" jangle nicely out toward my ears. My first impression is aesthetic and technical. I can tell immediately by the stylistic choices the band and Mr. Martin are making, combined with the technical limitations of the studio equipment they were using, that this is clearly not a 1970 release from The Beatles, which should be obvious to anyone who knows their history anyway. "I Should Have Known Better" follows, and I can once again tell that this falls into earlier Beatles territory, simply because of John Lennon's use of the harmonica and the fact that this recording lacks in he realm of low-end frequencies. So far, this seems like a capital (rather than a Capitol) release, which it is.

But something's happening to me as each song comes and goes. Perhaps it's the fact that I grew up with this record playing as part of my mental soundtrack, but as "I Should Have..." starts to fade out, I find myself warmly anticipating the opening lines of "Paperback Writer," as though it can only belong three and a half seconds after the previous selection. Now we're getting into the realm of the album. Next, the terribly overlooked tune "Rain" socks it to us and I know that this peculiar collection is working its own magic on us, providing a context and a cultural framework out of thin air.

There is a beautiful arc to "Hey Jude," both sonically and emotionally. As "Revolution" finishes up side A I know that it could not have come earlier or later in the album. It is so raw and treble-fuzzy that it's hard to imagine it belonging anywhere else but as part of "Hey Jude." It really earns its place as we roll through the ages, song by song. So far I have been developing an impression that "Hey Jude" is a carefully composed and framed snapshot of the progress of sixties rock and roll, and for lack of anything more profound to say, I think I'll run with that for a while.

Think about it for a second: a snapshot of the artistic development of a whole cultural era, captured in just 16 minutes (I haven't got to side B yet, of course) by one band. We can hear the pre-fabricated marketing of "Can't Buy Me Love" giving way to something more strange, less traditionally marketable. The songs stop talking down to us. The lyrics move quickly away from that standard love song format and into some unique poetic expressions. Nobody before Paul McCartney wrote a song like "Paperback Writer." It's a brilliant and whimsical glimpse into the mundane work stresses of a struggling pulp writer. And it's a catchy song to boot. You'd also be hard-pressed to find anything in the rest of the Beatles' (or anyone else's) catalogue which resembles either the music or the lyrics of "Rain." (some solid drumming, there, Ringo!)

So what happens when we flip the record over? We get the reason for this compilation's very existence, the song "Hey Jude." It goes without saying this tune has earned its stripes, but my appreciation of the song is enhanced by the fact that it's the main course of the album's meal. If "Revolution" was a startling little palette-cleanser following a sampler plate, this is our rich Boeuf Bourguignon, with complex seasonings serving to highlight the simple beauty of the pastoral recipe. No shocks here, no real surprises. But such wisdom and mastery is at work in the presentation that we can't help but be moved, even after the eighteenth chorus of "na-na-na-na."

And then something peculiar happens. Things shift gears slightly, making us think back and forward simultaneously. This is the work of a group up until a point. But then you have John singing two songs, one a live recording from the Let It Be sessions (but clearly a Lennon song) and one about himself and his girlfriend doing their activist stuff, you have a neat one-off by George Harrison, and Lady Madonna, while still on Side A, was a song that really sounds like it's mostly Paul performing it. In 1970, it could hardly have been lost on the avid Beatles follower that the last few songs on "Hey Jude" were recorded during the period of their break-up. Nothing after the title track indicates as much togetherness as it does. "Hey Jude" is the epitome of the sixties' togetherness angle, after all. When we are treated to "Old Brown Shoe" by Harrison, we know that we are being distracted away from something. Perhaps we're being distracted from the ironic tragedy inherent in appreciating the teamwork style of "Hey Jude" by the since-disbanded Beatles. It actually sounds like the beginning of the seventies to me, both sonically and stylistically.

"Lady Madonna," while actually appearing as an ominous note of foreboding on side A, continues in the whimsical-literary vein of McCartney's preference, but as I mentioned there is something more insistently Paul-ish about this one. He's very high in the mix, and seems to me to be trampling upon the others. Lyrical content aside, his aggressive and smug tone is forcing a singular artistic agenda upon us, some bill that has been pushed through without the other legislative parties being consulted. Not that I don't like the song, but it's no "Hey Jude." It almost feels, I dunno,... bullyish.

The point I have been belabouring is that this collection of songs has a personality all its own, and it has a more potent force as the collection that it is. I remember being about ten years old and checking out the cassette version of the album in my old pal Collin's basement. I was upset that they put the second side on first. They did this because it's the longer side, and it was feared it would annoy potential consumers if they had to fast-forward the rest of side one so they could flip the tape and play side two. But that treated it as a mere commodity, not the album I felt it was.

If you can get into this theory I am espousing, I would strongly urge you to do the following:

1) Arrange the ten songs of the album in the following order on your iphone or whatever:

• Can't Buy Me Love
• I Should Have Known Better
• Paperback Writer
• Rain
• Lady Madonna
• Revolution
• a pause (1-1 1/2 min. should do, just enough to simulate having to get up and flip the record. Be sure to take this time to get up from where you're seated, or to put down whatever you're holding.)
• Hey Jude
• Old Brown Shoe
• Don't Let Me Down
• Ballad Of John And Yoko

2) Now listen to this album several times from start to finish, or at least from the beginning of a side until its end.

3) Repeat.

4) Repeat again. Listen to the album until you know its order the way it is.

5) Now take a couple weeks off, and then in a fortnight do it again, but this time, shuffle the order, add songs, delete some.

I think you will find that you can shuffle them all you want, tweak the playlist here and there,  even flip the position of only two songs and you will never be as satisfied as you were with the album's initial presentation. I know I will not.

This was not an essay, clearly, but a formless rant. I need subject matter to shape a proper essay around. Please send any assignments my way through the blog. I will strive, within boundaries of taste that only I will define, to do your considered suggestions justice. Just don't give me a deadline.

Naneek of the North,
Winnipeg, Canada