Beatles Rewind Podcast

Steve Weber and Cassandra

Beatles. All day, every day. Eight Days a Week !!! beatlesrewind.substack.com

  1. 11 HR AGO

    Mal Evans: The Secret Beatle

    Go back and watch Get Back again. Not for John Lennon’s wisecracks or Paul McCartney’s melodic brainstorming or George Harrison’s increasingly strained patience—watch the edges of the frame. There’s a massive bloke with thick eyeglasses, clipboard in hand, scribbling down lyrics as fast as the band can say them, hauling equipment, keeping the sessions from collapsing into total chaos, and grinning like a man who genuinely cannot believe how lucky he is to be there. That’s Mal Evans. Road manager. Personal assistant. The guy they called when they needed something heavy lifted or something impossible sorted out. Mal simply enjoyed being around the band, and once said: “I can live on it, it’s better than food and drink.” Mal was working as a telephone engineer in Liverpool when he started taking his lunch breaks at the Cavern Club to watch the Beatles play. George Harrison took a liking to him and recommended him to the club's manager as a bouncer—a natural fit given that Mal was 6'6" and built like a truck. Within a year, he was the band’s roadie. He’s also the guy whose voice you’ve heard on one of the greatest rock recordings ever made, whose physical effort powered one of Abbey Road’s most memorable moments, and whose notebooks contain lyric contributions that nobody has ever properly credited him for. Let’s explore what Mal Evans actually did—and what the Beatles’ catalog would sound like without him. The “Mal Sound”—What You’ve Actually Been Hearing 🎵 Let’s start with the one you can clearly hear if you know where to listen. “A Day in the Life”—arguably the greatest thing the Beatles ever recorded—has a famous middle section where the orchestra builds from almost nothing to a screaming, unhinged wall of sound across 24 bars. Someone had to vocally count out those 24 bars during the recording so the session musicians could navigate the chaos. That someone was Mal. His voice, increasingly swallowed by the orchestral crescendo, is clearly audible on the track: “One … Two … Three ... Four…” The band planned to edit that out. Then someone noticed that the alarm clock ringing at the end of the build—which Mal had also triggered—perfectly set up McCartney’s “woke up, fell out of bed” section, and suddenly what was supposed to be a technical placeholder became one of the most distinctive moments on Sgt. Pepper. Mal, totally by accident, shaped the architecture of the most acclaimed rock song ever made. And then he was one of five people who simultaneously hammered the final E major chord into three pianos to create that extraordinary, 53-second fade. Whether you knew it or not, you’ve been hearing Mal Evans your whole life. “You Won’t See Me” on Rubber Soul needed a Hammond organ part—a sustained, thick texture underneath the track. Nobody in the Beatles was available or particularly interested in doing it, so Mal held down the organ note for the duration of the song. Not playing a melody. Not improvising. Just holding a note with the patience of a man who understood that sometimes the job is just to hold the note. “Being for the Benefit of Mr. Kite!” required a harmonica texture that was more atmospheric than melodic—a slightly chaotic, fairground-organ quality that Lennon wanted. Mal and assistant Neil Aspinall both grabbed harmonicas and blew different notes simultaneously, creating the aural equivalent of a Victorian circus. It shouldn’t work. It absolutely does. 🎪 The Man Who Drove 200 Miles With No Windshield in the Freezing Cold 🚐 Before Mal ever set foot in the recording studio, he'd already become legendary on the road. In January 1963, driving the band back to Liverpool from London in the dead of winter, a pebble shattered the van’s windshield. Most people would have pulled over and asked for help. Instead, Mal punched the remaining glass out with his fist, wrapped his hat around his hand, and drove 200 miles through freezing fog with no windshield. Meanwhile, the Beatles piled on top of each other in the back of the van with a bottle of whisky, trying to stay warm in what Paul later called a "Beatle sandwich." Mal didn't gripe. He got them home. The Anvil Situation (It’s Heavy) ⚒️ During the Get Back rehearsals in January 1969, Paul sent Mal to find a blacksmith’s anvil and a hammer to produce the clanging sound he wanted on “Maxwell’s Silver Hammer.” Mal—because it’s what Mal did—found an anvil, dragged it into the Twickenham film studio, and sat cross-legged in front of it in a director’s chair, clipboard on his knee, hitting it on the first two beats of each chorus, every time they ran through the song. You can see this in Get Back, a wonderful image of Mal grinning ear-to-ear. Now, the technical caveat: when the song was actually recorded for Abbey Road six months later in July 1969, most sources—including author Mark Lewisohn—credit Ringo with the final anvil performance on the record. Recording engineer Geoff Emerick’s memoir describes Ringo attempting it but lacking the arm strength to swing the hammer properly, with Mal stepping back in. The sourcing is genuinely contested. What isn’t contested: it was Mal who found the anvil, Mal who established the part during months of rehearsals, and Mal who was the primary anvil player for the band’s entire relationship with the song until the actual recording date. The part exists because of Mal. Whether his specific hammer strikes are on the final take is up for debate. The Notebooks—The Contribution Nobody Talks About 📓 Mal’s diaries—which went missing years after his death in 1976—were rediscovered in a trunk in a New York publisher’s basement and eventually made available through Kenneth Womack’s 2023 biography Living the Beatles Legend. The diary entries suggest creative contributions going well beyond fetching anvils and holding organ notes. Mal also transcribed lyrics by hand throughout the recording sessions, which meant he was often the first person to see a song fully written out, working alongside the composer as lines were finalized. According to his notes, Mal was in the room when Paul was writing “Fixing a Hole” and contributed to the lyrics. A collectibles dealer sold those lyric sheets in 2006 for $192,000. Page one was written by Paul on Apple Corps letterhead, and the other two pages were written by Mal. He noted being promised royalties for Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, but he never got any. His weekly wage at the time was £38 (about $850 in today’s U.S. dollars). The creative assistant role is harder to quantify than the alarm clock or the harmonica. But the diaries make clear that Mal Evans was not a wallflower standing in the corner waiting to be useful. He was the right-hand man. 🎶 The Gentle Giant’s Ending 🕯️ After the Beatles broke up in 1970, Mal kept working—with solo Beatles, with Badfinger (he’d discovered them and brought their demos to Paul, who signed them and wrote their first hit “Come and Get It”), producing sessions, trying to make a career in the music industry that he’d spent a decade helping to build from the inside. It didn’t go well. He was fired by Allen Klein from Apple, eventually reinstated, and then slowly edged out as the Beatles’ organization contracted. He moved to Los Angeles, separated from his wife Lily, and spent the mid-70s in the loose orbit of Harry Nilsson and the remnants of John’s “Lost Weekend” crowd. He was working on a memoir—Living the Beatles Legend—due to his publisher in January 1976. He never delivered the manuscript. On January 4, 1976, despondent and heavily medicated, Mal picked up an air rifle at his apartment on West 4th Street. His girlfriend called the police. When they arrived, they shot him four times. He was 40 years old. His ashes were sent back to England by post and got lost in the mail. When Lennon heard the news, he suggested looking in “the dead letter file.” It’s a cruel joke. It’s also heartbreaking. The man who spent a decade making sure four other people got where they needed to be couldn’t find his own way home. The Real Fifth Beatle 🎤 Who was the “Fifth Beatle?” George Martin? Brian Epstein? Stuart Sutcliffe? Pete Best? These are all plausible answers. But Mal Evans is the one who was actually there—every tour, nearly every session, every crisis, every moment of impossible creative productivity. His voice is on the records. His physical effort shaped the sessions. His notebooks capture the creative process from the inside. He never got the royalties he was promised. He never got the credit. He got £38 a week and the privilege of being in the room while history happened. Visit my Beatles Store: Get full access to Beatles Rewind at beatlesrewind.substack.com/subscribe

    17 min
  2. 1 DAY AGO

    Everything You Know About 1962 is Wrong: The Beatles’ Documented Rebirth

    I’ll be honest—I stumbled onto this gem totally by accident. Last night I was scrolling through TV listings, looking for something Beatles-related I hadn’t already seen a dozen times, and there it was: Evolver:62, a documentary I’d somehow never heard of. The title alone was intriguing enough to click, but what I wasn’t expecting was just how good it turned out to be. Over the next 90 minutes or so, I found myself repeatedly pausing to process something I’d never heard—a detail, a reframing, a piece of context that made a story I thought I already knew inside-out suddenly feel brand new. If you consider yourself a serious Beatles fan and you haven’t seen this yet, clear your evening. 🎬 The Time Machine in a Suit The documentary opens with a moment that sets the tone perfectly. Host Mark Lewisohn—widely regarded as the world’s foremost Beatles historian, the man who’s spent decades doing the kind of archival detective work most historians only dream about—is standing in modern-day London, holding a grainy 1962 photograph up against the actual street corner it depicts. Past and present, overlapping in real time. It’s a simple image, but it’s quietly thrilling. 📸 This is exactly what Evolver:62 promises and delivers: not mythology, but forensic reconstruction. This isn’t the Beatles of legend. This isn’t the mop-tops on Ed Sullivan, the Fab Four conquering America with matching haircuts and coordinated bows. This is something rawer and more interesting—the transitional year, the hinge point, the 12 months when four working-class lads from Liverpool made a series of decisions that would reshape pop culture for the next century. The leather jackets were on their way out. The Pierre Cardin suits were on their way in. And everything was about to change. 🌍 The film is available on Amazon Prime Video, Apple TV / iTunes, YouTube Movies, Fandango at Home (Vudu), and DVD. The Great Decca “Rejection” Myth Ask any casual Beatles fan about January 1, 1962, and they’ll tell you the story: the Beatles auditioned for Decca Records, got rejected because guitar groups were supposedly “on the way out,” and the rest is history. It’s one of the most notorious blunders in entertainment history, right up there with the publisher who passed on Harry Potter. 🙅‍♂️ But Evolver:62 explodes this narrative entirely, and it’s one of the documentary’s most satisfying moments. Lewisohn lays out the evidence that Decca’s decision was less a hard “no” than a “we’ll see”—a hedge that backfired spectacularly. The Decca suits weren’t blind to what they were hearing. But they were cautious in the way that major labels were always cautious, waiting to see which way the wind was blowing before committing. What makes this reframing so interesting isn’t just the historical detail, it’s what the rejection did to the band. The Decca audition tape, so lovingly analyzed and dissected by Lewisohn, shows a group that was already extraordinary but not yet quite themselves. But the failure lit a fire. Every door that closes can reveal genius; every true artist builds their own universe. Without the Decca rejection, the hunger that drove the band through the rest of 1962 might have been less fierce. 📈 Dumb and Dumber What makes the Decca saga even richer is what the documentary reveals about the actual offer that came out of that audition. Decca didn't simply slam the door. They would allow the Beatles to record for the label, but with a catch: Beatles manager Brian Epstein would have to foot the bill for pressing the records himself. His answer, of course, was a big fat no. But in a twist that’s almost too ironic to believe, Decca also offered to publish some of the Beatles' songs. The songwriting, not the recording, was what caught their attention. 🤔 This was early 1962, when Lennon and McCartney were still finding their voice as composers, when the band's set list leaned heavily on covers. Decca saw value in publishing songs by unknown songwriters who were quickly becoming great, yet still couldn't bring themselves to simply sign the band. It's the kind of near-miss that makes you wonder how many other world-changing artists slipped through somebody's fingers for equally baffling reasons. 📋 The Suit: Corporate Sellout or Creative Choice? Here’s where the documentary really earns its place in the Beatles canon. The conventional story of Epstein’s makeover—replacing the Beatles’ leather jackets with neat suits, smoothing their raw Hamburg energy into BBC-friendly respectability—has always had a faint whiff of tragedy about it. The wild boys domesticated. The dangerous act defanged. 🧥 Lewisohn pushes back on this, and he does it with evidence. The Beatles chose it. It wasn’t Epstein marching them into a tailor’s shop against their will. They understood, with the cold, strategic clarity that would define their entire career, that looking “safe” was the price of admission to the mainstream—and that once they were in, they could do whatever they wanted. The BBC wouldn’t playlist a band that looked like it had just rolled in from a Hamburg dive bar at 4 a.m. The suits were a tactical decision, a Trojan horse. And Lewisohn reveals how the Beatles actually designed the suits themselves. 🎭 The Drummer Dilemma If 1962 has a dramatic centerpiece, it’s the moment that has been discussed, debated, and mythologized more than almost any other in Beatles history: Longtime drummer Pete Best is fired, and Ringo Starr arrives. The final piece of the puzzle clicks into place. The band that will conquer the world is now complete. 🥁 What Evolver:62 shows so well is the cold-blooded efficiency of that decision. The documentary doesn’t wallow in sentimentality about Pete Best, it follows the evidence, and the evidence suggests that the band made a business calculation as much as an artistic one. They weren’t just friends making music together. They were an organization gunning for a very specific outcome. They needed the best drummer available, and Pete Best, despite being a nice guy, was not the best guy. Merseyside to the World: The Geography of Genius One of the things that distinguishes Evolver:62 from the average music documentary is its commitment to physical place. Lewisohn doesn’t just talk about history, he stands in it. The actual street corners. The real stage doors. The venues that either still exist or have been replaced by something much less interesting. 📍 This matters. The Beatles’ story is so large, so thoroughly mythologized, that it can start to feel weightless—floating free of any particular time or location, existing in some eternal pop-culture dimension. Seeing Lewisohn physically navigate the Liverpool and London of 1962 tethers the story back to earth. These were real places. Real vans driving down real highways at ungodly hours in freezing weather. Real rehearsal rooms with bad acoustics and no heating. The Beatles weren’t legends who fell from the sky. They were four working-class lads doing a job, getting good at it the hard way, one step at a time. Why 1962 Still Matters Lewisohn’s key insight—shown with evidence, passion, and the authority of someone who’s read every document and interviewed every surviving witness—is that “overnight success” never happens. Not ever. The Beatles’ “overnight success” took years of grueling work in Hamburg, endless gigs around Merseyside, and then one very long van ride to London with a lot riding on the outcome. The pop song as art form, the album as statement, the idea that four people with guitars could be the most important cultural force on the planet—all of it traces back, in one way or another, to the decisions made in that single pivotal year. Evolver:62 takes you back to the moment it all became possible, and reminds you that it was never inevitable. It was chosen, worked for, and earned. 🍏 Visit my Beatles Store: Get full access to Beatles Rewind at beatlesrewind.substack.com/subscribe

    16 min
  3. 2 DAYS AGO

    The Beatles' Dirty Laundry: The Smoking Gun That Explains Everything

    A Cupboard Full of Rock History Just when you think you know everything about the Beatles, it turns out you don’t. Someone in Surrey, England, who was recently rummaging through their cupboard, unearthed 300 pages of confidential documents explaining the real reason for the Beatles’ breakup. 📦 What makes this archive so remarkable is that it moves the breakup story out of the realm of rock mythology and into cold, documented reality—a reality ruled by lawyers and bean-counters who made an even bigger mess of things. These documents have no agenda. The papers go under the hammer at Ewbank’s auction house in Surrey on February 26, 2026, and the collecting world is buzzing. The auction lot is titled—with admirable bluntness—“The Break-Up of The Beatles,” and it contains the full paper trail of the High Court battle that made it all official: James Paul McCartney v. John Ono Lennon, George Harrison, Richard Starkey, and Apple Corps Limited, 1970-1971. The Usual Story — And Why It’s Incomplete Most Beatles fans know the broad outline. 🎸 John and Paul stopped getting along. Allen Klein arrived as manager and immediately divided the room. Yoko Ono was vilified, as was Linda McCartney. The 1969 Let It Be recording sessions had been miserable. Somebody said something unforgivable. It’s a great story—dramatic, personal, laden with the weight of genius colliding with ego—and it’s also, according to these documents, only half the picture. The other half is considerably less romantic. It involves tax liabilities, missing money, construction projects nobody told Paul about, and a legal situation so chaotic that the band’s own lawyers questioned whether it was worth untangling. As auctioneer Andrew Ewbank explains: This is an extraordinary record … particularly important in two ways: in recording the fallout that was commonplace in the early days of modern music, when musicians were naïve about business and often exploited by those who managed them, and in providing a highly reliable detailed source of the dynamics within The Beatles and what drove them. On a happier note, the auction includes a gold record awarded for $1 million in U.S. sales of Meet The Beatles!, which was #1 for eleven consecutive weeks and turned the band into a global phenomenon. Get your checkbook ready, bidding starts at £4,000 😀. You Never Give Me Your Money Here’s the thing about Apple Corps that gets lost in the romantic mythology: It was, by most accounts, a financial disaster. 💸 The idealistic vision—a company run by artists, for artists, without the usual corporate machinery grinding everyone down—collided with the reality that running a company requires someone to actually run it. If there’s a villain in the Beatles’ story, Allen Klein is the poster child, and these documents make that case more than ever. 💼 Klein was the New York music manager brought in by John, George, and Ringo to run Apple Corps—over Paul’s vociferous and sustained objection. Paul wanted his father-in-law, Lee Eastman. That disagreement alone might have been survivable. What followed was not. Things came to a head when Paul discovered the construction of a second recording studio he knew nothing about. 🏗️ This is the kind of detail that gets lost in the “John vs. Paul” personality narrative. The personal animosity was real, but it was accelerated and amplified by a dysfunctional business situation. Meanwhile, as Apple’s accountants were trying to sort out the financial mess, tax authorities were demanding answers. This wasn’t just a personality clash. The Ringo Mystery Nobody Talks About Here’s the detail that will genuinely surprise most Beatles fans, even the hard-core. 🥁 Buried in the paperwork is a document revealing that no agreement was signed when Pete Best, the band’s original drummer, was fired and Ringo Starr joined in 1962. None. The most consequential personnel change in rock history—the moment the classic Beatles lineup was assembled—was apparently handled on a handshake and a prayer, with no formal documentation. This created a significant legal headache years later when the lawyers were trying to figure out exactly who had been a Beatle, when, and under what terms. The lack of paperwork for Ringo’s joining meant that the entire structure of the band’s legal partnership had a gap in its foundation that nobody had noticed or cared about while things were going well—but became impossible to ignore once everyone was suing everyone else. What This Changes For decades, the Beatles breakup has been understood primarily as a human story—four friends who grew apart, pulled in different directions by ego, ambition, and the impossible weight of being four different superstars. 🔍 That story is true as far as it goes. What these documents add is the institutional dimension: the paper trail of a business empire that was never properly organized. The lawyers didn’t cause the breakup. But they made very sure it couldn’t be undone. Visit my Beatles Store: Get full access to Beatles Rewind at beatlesrewind.substack.com/subscribe

    10 min
  4. 4 DAYS AGO

    Venus and Mars: How Paul McCartney Realigned the Stars ✨ 🌌 🔭 🪐

    The Impossible Second Act By the end of 1973, Paul McCartney had pulled off one of the most remarkable comebacks in rock history. 🎸 Band on the Run—recorded in Lagos, Nigeria, with a depleted lineup after two members quit—had silenced the critics, topped the charts on both sides of the Atlantic, and reminded the world that the most melodically gifted Beatle still had plenty of gas in the tank. But that kind of success created its own kind of kind of pressure. How do you follow up an album that saved your career? For most artists, the answer is to play it safe—make Band on the Run again, slightly louder, hope nobody notices. Paul, characteristically, had other ideas. He didn’t want to survive again. He wanted to conquer. A Real Band at Last The Wings that showed up to make Venus and Mars was different from the group that had slogged through Lagos. 🎶 Drummer Joe English and guitarist Jimmy McCulloch had joined, and their arrival transformed “Paul-and-friends” into a bona fide five-piece rock band with real chemistry and firepower. McCulloch was crucial. A Scottish guitar prodigy who’d already played with Thunderclap Newman and Stone the Crows before his twentieth birthday, he gave Wings something they’d always been missing—an edge. You can hear it in the muscular crunch beneath “Rock Show,” in the loose, confident interplay that runs throughout the album. This wasn’t the tentative band of Wild Life. This was a group that knew exactly what it could do and was ready to show it. Joe English brought a drumming style that was both technically sharp and deeply groovy—and that groove was going to matter enormously for what Paul had planned next. 🥁 New Orleans and the Sound of a Party Paul decided to take the band to Sea-Saint Studios in New Orleans. 🎷 Allen Toussaint had built Sea-Saint as a home for the funk and soul sounds that were reshaping American music in the mid-seventies, and the city’s DNA—second-line brass bands, Bourbon Street jazz, the whole glorious mess of it—seeped directly into Wings’ sessions. Celebrity visitors wandered through constantly. Lee Dorsey. The Meters. Dave Mason. Paul and Linda even attended Mardi Gras dressed as clowns, jamming with The Meters on a river cruise. The whole thing had the feel of an extended party, and Paul absorbed every bit of it. Where Band on the Run was forged under pressure in a foreign city with a skeleton crew, Venus and Mars was built with something approaching pure joy—and you can hear the difference from the first note. Paul himself described writing the title track with characteristic breezy charm, telling Melody Maker in 1975: “It’s really a total fluke. I was just sitting down and started singing ANYTHING and some words came out... I got this idea about a fellow sitting in a cathedral waiting for this transport from space that was going to pick him up and take him on a trip.” 🌙 That kind of loose, inspired spontaneity runs through the whole record. “Listen to What the Man Said” is the purest expression of that spirit. Built on a melody so naturally effervescent it seems like it’s always existed, the track features a saxophone solo from Tom Scott that remains one of the most instantly recognizable horn moments in McCartney’s entire catalog. It hit number one on both sides of the Atlantic without breaking a sweat—the most Paul McCartney thing imaginable. 😎 The Suite, the Singles, and the Deep Cuts The album opens with one of the great arena-rock sequences of the decade. 🔥 The title track begins as something almost dreamlike—a gentle, slightly trippy reverie that lulls you into a false sense of calm before “Rock Show” absolutely detonates beneath it with enough force to fill the largest stadium on earth. That transition is seamless, deliberate, and devastating. Paul understood instinctively what the opening of a stadium concert needed to feel like, and he literally built it into the album’s DNA. “Rock Show” itself deserves way more credit than it gets. Running over five minutes, name-checking Madison Square Garden and the Hollywood Bowl, it celebrates the communal ritual of the live concert with the genuine enthusiasm of someone who still finds the whole thing thrilling. This wasn’t a rock star going through the motions. This was a fan who happened to be the headliner. 🎤 And then there’s Linda. Her contributions to Venus and Mars are woven so naturally into the vocal architecture that it’s easy to take them for granted—which is exactly what the critics did, to their lasting embarrassment. 🎵 Listen carefully to “Spirits of Ancient Egypt,” Denny Laine’s gorgeous deep cut, and pay attention to what Linda’s voice does to the harmony blend. The warmth, the centering quality, the way she softens and grounds Paul’s melodies—dismissing her was always the wrong call, and Venus and Mars is evidence. Critics Gotta Hate Not everyone was swept up in the good vibes. Rolling Stone’s review was one of the most savage notices of McCartney’s career, dismissing the album as “a press-release concept, generally uninspired melodies and some of the dumbest lyrics on record”—a take so hostile it almost feels personal. You can read the full review here. 😤 More measured—and ultimately more accurate—was the retrospective assessment from Super Deluxe Edition, which noted that the album was “full of strong commercial pop songs that sounded great on the radio and worked well in arenas” while acknowledging that “its only fault was that it wasn’t Band on the Run.” You can read that full piece here. The gap between those two critical responses tells you everything about how Venus and Mars was received—and how wrong the hostile camp turned out to be. History, commercial success, and fifty years of devoted fans have rendered their verdict. 🎯 The Launchpad for a World Tour Venus and Mars hit number one in both the United States and the United Kingdom, and at that point the conversation was officially over. 🌍 Paul McCartney wasn’t trading on Beatles nostalgia. He wasn’t in rehabilitation mode. He was operating at the peak of his powers with a band capable of delivering the goods anywhere on earth. And the venues were about to get very large indeed. The Wings Over the World tour of 1975 and 1976—arguably the greatest sustained live achievement of McCartney’s entire solo career—grew directly from the foundation Venus and Mars had built. The setlist, the sonic confidence, the cultural momentum that allowed Wings to play to audiences rivaling anything the Beatles had faced a decade earlier—all of it started in New Orleans, in those loose, joyful sessions at Sea-Saint. The Wembley shows, the Australian dates, the triumphant American run—none of it happens without this album. 🏟️ Better Than Band on the Run? Here’s the honest answer: they’re playing completely different games. 🤔 Band on the Run is a survival story—an album that carries its circumstances inside it, that sounds like something forged under pressure because it genuinely was. You can’t separate the drama of Lagos from the drama of the music. That tension is the whole point. Venus and Mars is what comes after survival. It’s the sound of a band with nothing left to prove, choosing to enjoy itself anyway—polished, expansive, generous in its pleasures and completely unashamed of its ambitions. Whether that makes it better depends entirely on what you’re listening for. Which kind of greatness matters more, the kind that gets forged in a crisis, or the kind that arrives when the crisis is finally over? 🎸 Visit my Beatles Store: Get full access to Beatles Rewind at beatlesrewind.substack.com/subscribe

    13 min
  5. 6 DAYS AGO

    Rock Hall of Fame Unveiling McCartney & Wings Exhibition 🎸

    The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame will debut “Paul McCartney and Wings” on May 15th, 2026—the first major museum exhibition dedicated to exploring Wings’ decade-long journey from 1970 through 1981. It’s about damn time. For years, Wings has been treated as rock history’s awkward stepchild: too successful to ignore, too uncool to celebrate properly, forever overshadowed by what came before. This exhibition, featuring never-before-displayed artifacts from Paul’s personal archives, handwritten lyrics, instruments from recording sessions, and previously unseen photography, finally gives Wings the serious institutional recognition the band earned but rarely received. Here’s the context younger fans might not know: Wings dominated 1970s commercial radio with seven top 10 hits including “Band on the Run,” “Listen to What the Man Said,” “Silly Love Songs,” and “With a Little Luck.” This wasn’t Paul desperately clinging to relevance—this was a legitimate juggernaut that sold millions of albums and filled stadiums. The exhibition traces this arc of reinvention, from Paul’s self-titled 1970 debut through Wings’ formation to the band’s 1981 dissolution. 🏆 The timing couldn’t be better. Morgan Neville’s documentary Man on the Run will debut February 27th on Amazon Prime Video. The documentary focuses on Wings’ 1970s ascension, particularly the dramatic Lagos sessions that produced Band on the Run—one of the craziest near-disasters in rock history. Obviously, Paul looks back at Wings’ run with great fondness, recently telling Rolling Stone: Starting from scratch after the Beatles felt crazy at times. There were some very difficult moments, and I often questioned my decision. But as we got better I thought, ‘OK, this is really good.’ We proved Wings could be a really good band.” Why This Exhibition Actually Matters The Rock Hall promises “the most extensive collection of items from Paul’s personal archives to be made accessible to the public,” including instruments, stage clothing, handwritten lyrics, original artwork, and tour memorabilia. Paul’s exhibition is taking over the space previously occupied by “Bon Jovi: Forever” which closed recently after a two-year run at the Cleveland museum. But what makes this significant isn’t just the artifacts themselves—it’s what they represent about who gets credit for defining the 1970s sound. After the Beatles’ breakup, the narrative stuck for decades that John Lennon had been the major creative force behind the Beatles, and Paul was the lightweight, dragging his untalented wife around. Never mind Wings’ album sales. Never mind Band on the Run is legitimately brilliant. Never mind “Live and Let Die” became one of the decade’s most iconic performances. The critical consensus dismissed Wings as inconsequential, and that judgment persisted for forty years. This exhibition challenges that narrative not through argument but evidence: the handwritten lyrics demonstrating Paul’s craft, the instruments that created those massive hits, the tour memorabilia from sold-out stadium shows. You can’t examine Wings’ creative output and commercial success while maintaining this was some vanity project. This was a major band that defined a significant chunk of 1970s rock, whether critics admitted it or not. Any objective critic who looks back at Paul’s body of solo work has to concede this: he was prolific, successful, and on the whole, pretty darned good. 🎯 Paul was inducted into the Rock Hall twice: as a Beatle in 1988 and as a solo artist in 1999. Wings has not been inducted separately. What Happened in Lagos (A Masterpiece Made from Chaos) In 1973, McCartney’s first three Wings albums had received brutal critical reception, and the pressure to deliver something great was existential. Paul’s solution: record in Lagos, Nigeria—partly for tax advantages, partly to immerse himself in a different musical culture. Then everything went sideways. 🌍 Just before sessions began, guitarist Henry McCullough and drummer Denny Seiwell quit, leaving McCartney with only Linda and guitarist Denny Laine. The skeletal lineup forced Paul to play nearly every instrument himself. Shortly after arriving, Paul and Linda were mugged at knifepoint—the thieves stole his notebooks of lyrics and demo tapes, meaning Paul had to reconstruct everything from memory. The studio equipment malfunctioned constantly. The heat was unbearable. Nigerian musician Fela Kuti publicly accused him of cultural appropriation. Political unrest simmered throughout the city. 🌡️ The smart move would’ve been abandoning the project and flying home. Instead, Paul sweated through his clothes playing bass, then drums, then piano, then guitars, overdubbing parts until the album took shape. Band on the Run topped charts worldwide, won a Grammy, and silenced critics who’d written him off. Sometimes the best revenge is a triple-platinum album that people discuss fifty years later. And that story—that moment of crisis and creative determination—deserves museum recognition alongside the actual artifacts from those sessions. 💔 Linda McCartney’s Contributions (The Historical Record Needs Correction) One aspect the exhibition must address properly is Linda McCartney’s role—a subject distorted by decades of sexist criticism and lazy assumptions. Critics dismissed Linda as dead weight who only had a career because she married a Beatle. The Man on the Run documentary shows Linda not just playing keyboards and singing backing vocals, but actively shaping creative decisions. There’s footage of Paul struggling with vocal arrangements for “Band on the Run,” and Linda suggests a different approach, demonstrating a vocal line Paul builds upon. The finished version blends both their voices so seamlessly it’s impossible to separate them. If the Rock Hall exhibition includes artifacts showing Linda’s contributions—her keyboard parts, her vocal arrangements, her creative input—it would help correct the historical record. Linda McCartney was more than “Paul’s wife in the band.” She was a legitimate creative collaborator whose contributions have been systematically undervalued. 💕 The Immersive Experience (Making History Feel Alive) The exhibition promises an “immersive experience incorporating archival video, audio and images,” which matters more than it might seem. Rock history shouldn’t be experienced like Renaissance paintings—reverently staring at static objects behind glass. Rock history should feel chaotic, sweaty, dangerous, thrilling. You should hear the music while examining artifacts. You should see footage of Paul working out Lagos arrangements while viewing the actual instruments he played. This is particularly crucial for Wings because so much of the story is about process—about rebuilding from scratch, about band members who came and went, about creative evolution from simple rock to complex arrangements. Static artifacts alone can’t tell that story. You need to hear how the sound evolved album by album. You need concert footage to understand why they filled stadiums. 🎬 Why Now? (The Slow Process of Reassessment) Paul’s documented his career for decades, each project serving different purposes. Wingspan (2001) attempted rehabilitating Wings’ reputation. McCartney 3, 2, 1 (2021) with Rick Rubin explored songwriting craft. The Man on the Run documentary focuses specifically on crisis—on that 1973 moment when everything was collapsing and Paul had to prove himself. And now this Rock Hall exhibition synthesizes everything, presenting Wings not as a Beatles footnote but as significant creative achievement in its own right. This timeline shows the slow process of historical reassessment. Wings didn’t suddenly become good retroactively—the albums were always there, the hits were always massive, the creative achievement was always real. What changed is the critical lens through which we view the 1970s and the willingness to take Wings seriously rather than dismissing them as uncool. 📖 What You’ll Actually See (If You Make the Trip) The exhibition opens May 15th, and will display Paul’s basses, guitars, and keyboards. You’ll see clothing worn by the band, documenting their visual evolution from simple rock band to elaborate stage productions. You’ll see handwritten lyrics revealing Paul’s creative process. You’ll see original artwork and tour memorabilia from stadium shows. You’ll see previously unseen photography documenting the band’s decade-long journey. 📷 But most importantly, you’ll see evidence that Wings mattered—that this wasn’t some vanity project or desperate attempt at relevance, but a legitimate creative enterprise that produced remarkable music under often impossible circumstances. You’ll see proof that Paul McCartney didn’t coast on Beatles nostalgia, but fought to prove he could still create something extraordinary. And examining those artifacts, understanding that determination and creative resilience, should be absolutely riveting. 🌟 Finally, this exhibition proves Wings was the real deal. The Rock Hall got this one right. Visit my Beatles Store: Get full access to Beatles Rewind at beatlesrewind.substack.com/subscribe

    17 min
  6. 19 FEB

    How The Beatles Outgrew Their House Photographer

    Robert Freeman took perhaps the most iconic photograph in music history when he snapped a picture of the Beatles in a hotel hallway in 1963. The half-shadowed faces on With the Beatles became the visual template for what a serious rock band should look like. Before Freeman, album covers were just headshots of people grinning like they were posing for yearbook photos. After Freeman, darkness and moodiness were aspirational. 📸 The Man Who Made Them Look Like Artists Freeman’s run as the Beatles’ house photographer lasted from 1963 to 1966, during which he shot five consecutive album covers and established a visual language for the band that was as important as George Martin’s production. Then, just as suddenly as he’d arrived, he was gone. Replaced by an illustrator for Revolver, sidelined entirely for Sgt. Pepper, and never brought back into the fold even as the Beatles continued releasing albums through 1970. What happened? Short answer: the Beatles outgrew him. The longer answer is more interesting. When Freeman first met the Beatles in August 1963, they were still wearing matching suits and had yet to crack America. He was a jazz photographer who’d worked with John Coltrane and understood how to make musicians look serious rather than approachable. The setup for With the Beatles was deceptively simple: four faces emerging from darkness, half-lit, wearing black turtlenecks, no smiles. It looked like album covers for French existentialist films, not pop music. 🖤 In a tribute he wrote when Freeman died in 2019, Paul McCartney recalled: People often think that the cover shot for Meet The Beatles of our foreheads in half shadow was a carefully arranged studio shot. In fact, it was taken quite quickly by Robert in the corridor of a hotel we were staying in where natural light came from the windows at the end of the corridor. The effect was transformative. Manager Brian Epstein had spent months trying to make the Beatles look clean-cut and non-threatening to parents. Freeman made them look like they didn’t care what your parents thought. The cover became so influential that every band for the next three years tried to replicate it—the Stones, the Kinks, the Who all attempted variations on the moody-faces-emerging-from-darkness template. Freeman had accidentally invented the visual vocabulary of rock credibility. For A Hard Day’s Night in 1964, Freeman gave them the grid of faces—five images each, twenty portraits total, showing different expressions. It was playful without being childish, artistic without being pretentious. The album was the soundtrack to their first film, and Freeman’s cover made it clear this wasn’t just a cash-grab movie tie-in. This was Art. 🎬 Then came Beatles for Sale in late 1964, and Freeman did something unexpected: he made them look sad. Shot in autumnal Hyde Park, the four Beatles stare at the camera with tired, slightly melancholic expressions. They’d spent 1964 being chased around the world by screaming fans, and Freeman captured what that exhaustion looked like. No other pop band at the time would have allowed a cover that suggested they were anything less than thrilled to be famous. The Beatles did, because Freeman made it look cool. 🍂 The Beginning of the End Help! in 1965 should have been the warning sign. Freeman shot the cover—the four Beatles in ski clothes spelling out a message in semaphore flag positions. Except they’re not actually spelling “HELP.” Freeman arranged them for visual composition rather than accuracy, and the actual semaphore reads something like “NUJV.” When this was pointed out, everyone shrugged. It looked good, and that was what mattered. But the willingness to prioritize aesthetics over meaning was very Freeman, and increasingly not very Beatles. 🎿 By Rubber Soul in December 1965, the relationship was starting to show cracks. The famous stretched, distorted faces on the cover were actually an accident. McCartney recalled: His normal practice was to use a slide projector and project the photos he’d taken onto a piece of white cardboard which was exactly album sized, thus giving us an accurate idea of how the finished product would look. During his viewing session the card, which had been propped up on a small table, fell backwards, giving the photograph a ‘stretched’ look. Instead of simply putting the card upright again, we became excited at the idea of this new version of his photograph. … Because the album was titled Rubber Soul, we felt that the image fitted perfectly. It became one of the most recognizable album covers of the sixties, but it also revealed something important: the Beatles were now making aesthetic decisions themselves rather than deferring to their photographer. Freeman was still technically in charge, but the band was increasingly directing the vision. 🎸 The cover also showed the absolute limit of what Freeman could do with photography. He could make them look moody, playful, tired, or distorted, but he couldn’t make them look psychedelic. He couldn’t make them look like the music was starting to sound. Enter Klaus Voormann For Revolver in August 1966, the Beatles hired Klaus Voormann, an old friend from Hamburg, to create a pen-and-ink illustration featuring collaged photographs and surreal line drawings. It was unlike any album cover that had come before, and it signaled a complete departure from Freeman’s stark realism. The Beatles were no longer interested in looking like sophisticated jazz musicians. They wanted to look like their minds were expanding. Freeman couldn’t deliver that with a camera. 🖊️ Freeman wasn’t fired, exactly. He wasn’t replaced with another photographer. He was replaced with a different medium entirely. The Beatles had moved past photography as the primary visual language for their work. By the time Sgt. Pepper rolled around in 1967, they needed pop art collage, not moody portraits. Peter Blake and Jann Haworth created the now-iconic cover, and Freeman was nowhere in the conversation. 🎭 Why They Never Came Back Even when the Beatles could have used Freeman again, they didn’t. The White Album in 1968 had a completely blank white cover with just the embossed title—no photo needed. Abbey Road in 1969 was a simple photograph of them crossing the street, which Freeman could have easily shot. Let It Be in 1970 used individual portrait photos that any competent photographer could have handled. But they never called Freeman back. 🚶 Part of this was practical: by 1968, the Beatles had largely stopped working as a unified group. They recorded separately, socialized separately, and certainly didn’t coordinate on album cover shoots the way they had in 1963. The idea of gathering all four Beatles for a Freeman photo session was increasingly impossible. But the deeper reason is that Freeman represented an era they’d left behind. His aesthetic was early-sixties sophistication—darkness, moodiness, European art film sensibility. By the late sixties, that looked dated. The Beatles were interested in Indian mysticism, avant-garde experimentation, and pastoral English countryside vibes. Freeman’s half-shadowed faces in black turtlenecks belonged to a different band entirely. ☮️ The Legacy Freeman went on to photograph other bands and pursue other projects, but he never again captured anything as culturally significant as those five Beatles covers. How could he? Those images defined an entire era. The half-shadowed With the Beatles faces are so iconic that parody versions still circulate today. The stretched Rubber Soul faces became shorthand for sixties experimentalism. Freeman’s work didn’t just document the Beatles—it helped create the visual language of rock music as a serious art form. 📷 The irony is that Freeman’s aesthetic eventually came back into fashion. Modern indie bands still borrow his moody, high-contrast, black-and-white approach. Those With the Beatles faces look timeless in a way that the Sgt. Pepper collage, for all its brilliance, doesn’t quite manage. Freeman created something that lasted. He just didn’t get to stick around long enough to see the Beatles through to the end. Five album covers in three years, and then he was gone—replaced by illustrators, pop artists, and eventually nobody at all. The Beatles didn’t need a house photographer anymore. They’d become the image themselves. 🎨 Visit my Beatles Store: Get full access to Beatles Rewind at beatlesrewind.substack.com/subscribe

    14 min
  7. 18 FEB

    "I Want a Divorce": The Day John Lennon Quit the Beatles

    September 8, 1969. The album is finished. Abbey Road won’t be released for another three weeks, but the four Beatles are gathered at their Apple offices on Savile Row for a meeting that should be celebratory. It isn’t. John Lennon has a proposal, and it’s less “let’s talk about the next record” and more “I want a divorce.” 💔 What John actually proposes is an “equal rights” system—a radical restructuring that would strip Paul McCartney of his de facto leadership role and give George Harrison equal footing in the band’s creative hierarchy. It’s the kind of demand you make when you’ve already checked out but haven’t figured out how to say it yet. Also, John dismisses the Side Two medley as “junk,” insisting his songs be grouped together on one side, away from Paul’s “granny music.” The album they’ve just finished—the one that will become their most cohesive statement—was apparently built on shifting sand. 🎸 Fragments Held Together By Tape The medley—Paul’s vision for a continuous, symphonic suite closing Side Two—was born out of necessity as much as ambition. They had fragments, half-songs. Ideas that couldn’t quite stand on their own. Paul, still thinking in Sgt. Pepper terms, saw an opportunity: stitch them together into something that sounds purposeful, a mini-opera that makes the listener forget they’re hearing musical scraps held together by George Martin’s production wizardry and sheer force of will. 🎵 John wasn’t buying it. By mid-1969, he’s deep in his Plastic Ono phase—raw, unvarnished, confessional. He wants statements, not puzzles. “I Want You (She’s So Heavy)” is eight minutes of primal heaviness that builds and builds until it just stops, like someone cut the tape with scissors. That’s the aesthetic John is after: brutal honesty, not baroque arrangements. The medley feels like a cop-out to him, a way for Paul to hide weak songwriting behind clever editing. The artistic split between them isn’t just about the medley—it’s about two fundamentally incompatible visions of what the Beatles should be in 1969. The medley becomes a metaphor for the band itself: bits and pieces held together by tape and the collective pretense that everything’s fine. 🎭 George’s Quiet Revolution While John and Paul are fighting over whether to tape fragments together or let them stand alone, George walks in with “Something” and “Here Comes the Sun”—the two best songs on the album, and it’s not particularly close. Frank Sinatra will call “Something” the greatest love song ever written. George wrote it about Pattie Boyd, though by this point their marriage is quietly falling apart, just like everything else. ☀️ Paul’s dismissive comment during the sessions—that George’s songs “weren’t that good” until now—is both an admission and an insult. George has been delivering quality material since Revolver, but Paul’s finally willing to acknowledge it right as the band is disintegrating. The timing is not lost on George, whose newfound confidence (and his deepening friendship with Eric Clapton) makes him considerably less willing to sit quietly while John and Paul argue about sequencing. He’s been a sideman long enough. The walkout mentality from the Get Back sessions in January—when George quit for five days—is still simmering. If they’re going to treat him like a hired hand, he can go be a star somewhere else. 🌟 The Accident That Defined The Ending “The Long One”—the original trial edit of the medley—runs about 15 minutes and contains a 20-second problem. Paul had placed “Her Majesty” between “Mean Mr. Mustard” and “Polythene Pam,” but it ruins the transition. The key is wrong, the mood is wrong, the whole thing just doesn’t work. Paul’s solution is simple: throw it away. 🗑️ Except you can’t just throw away a Beatles recording. Junior engineer John Kurlander, following the rule that nothing gets erased, splices “Her Majesty” onto the end of the reel instead of tossing it. And then something serendipitous happens: they forget it’s there. When the next engineer plays back the reel, “Her Majesty” pops up after the final chord of “The End” with that weird crashing note at the beginning (the last chord of “Mean Mr. Mustard” that it was originally spliced after). Paul hears it, loves the accidental quality of it, and decides to leave it. The “hidden track” that defines Abbey Road’s ending—23 seconds of solo Paul that feels like an afterthought or a secret—exists because a junior engineer refused to follow orders. Sometimes the best decisions are made by accident. 🎲 Communicating Through Instruments “The End” contains one of the rarest moments in late-period Beatles history: John, Paul, and George trading guitar solos in a single take, each getting two bars to say something before handing it off to the next guy. For one brief moment, the fighting stopped. They couldn’t communicate through words anymore—the resentments and unspoken grievances had made conversation nearly impossible—but they could still talk through their instruments. 🎸 The symbolism is almost too perfect: three virtuosos taking turns soloing, no one stepping on anyone else, each voice distinct but part of a larger conversation. It’s the kind of musical democracy John had been demanding in meetings, achieved spontaneously on the studio floor because they stopped thinking and just played. And then Paul closes it with his Shakespearean couplet—”And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make”—and even John, who’s been calling Paul’s work “granny music,” admits it’s perfect. For a moment, the argument stops. The fault line holds. ❤️ The Masterpiece They Couldn’t Admit They’d Made Six days before Abbey Road’s release, John tells the others he wants a “divorce.” It’s the September 20 meeting at Apple where he makes it official: he’s out. Lennon recalled with characteristic bluntness during his 1970 “Lennon Remembers” Rolling Stone interview: “I said to Paul, ‘I’m leaving.’ ... Paul just kept mithering on about what we were going to do, so in the end I just said, ‘I think you’re daft. I want a divorce.’” He also admitted to a bit of alpha-male regret later on, noting that he was annoyed Paul "beat him to the punchline" by being the one to officially announce the breakup to the public in April 1970. The album they’ve just spent months perfecting—the most cohesive-sounding thing they’ve ever made—was created by four people who could no longer stand to be in the same room together. The paradox is almost funny if it weren’t so sad. 😔 The medley wasn’t just a swan song, though it functions as one in retrospect. It was a desperate attempt to stick the fragments of a brotherhood back together—musical bits taped end-to-end in the hope that the seams wouldn’t show. And for 16 minutes and change, it works. You can’t hear the arguments. You can’t see John’s resentment or Paul’s frustration or George’s quiet revolution. All you hear is four guys who were once the best band in the world proving they still can be, even if only for the length of a long-playing record. The masterpiece was built on a fault line, but it holds. That’s the miracle and the tragedy of Abbey Road, wrapped up together in a side-two suite that shouldn’t have worked but does. 💿 The fragments stayed taped together just long enough. Visit my Beatles Store: Get full access to Beatles Rewind at beatlesrewind.substack.com/subscribe

    11 min
  8. 17 FEB

    A Penny For Your Pick: The Beatles' Guitar Plectra

    There’s a persistent legend about Paul McCartney that feels too charming to be fake. The story goes that Sir Paul—a man who could afford a gold-plated factory—used to make his guitar picks by lining up pennies on train tracks and letting a locomotive do the flattening. Whether it was a one-time experiment or a career-long habit is up for debate, but the image of the world’s most famous bassist scavenging for flattened copper is irresistible. It’s also, in a strange way, the perfect introduction to how the Beatles approached the humble guitar pick. These small, almost disposable pieces of plastic—or apparently, occasionally, smashed currency—were the first point of contact between the players and the music. And the choices they made, from cheap celluloid in Liverpool coffeehouses to the specific picks that helped define some of the most recorded bass lines in history, turn out to be more interesting than anyone who’s never lost a pick under their couch cushion might expect. The Skiffle Years and the Hardware Shop Problem 🎵 When John Lennon formed the Quarrymen in 1956, the available guitar equipment in Liverpool was, to put it diplomatically, limited. The picks available in British music shops were basic celluloid affairs, thin and cheap, the kind that came in whatever was on the shelf. You played what you could get. The picks of the era offered a blend of flexibility and brightness that worked okay for strumming chords on a skiffle guitar. The main choices were the teardrop shape and the slightly wider “home plate” profile—so called because of its resemblance to baseball’s fourth base.🎶 The Home Plate Era 🎸 As the Quarrymen evolved—Johnny and the Moondogs, the Silver Beetles, eventually the Beatles—and as the group tightened up through their relentless Hamburg residencies, the three guitarists developed a shared preference. All three—Paul, John Lennon, and George Harrison—were known for favoring a “home plate” shaped pick during the Beatles years. It looked like a standard pick but with slightly different side angles, giving it a marginally different feel in the hand and a slightly different attack on the string. In photographs and film from the Cavern Club era through the peak touring years, this shape appears consistently, clutched between thumb and forefinger as they hammered away. 🎤 The specific brand that gets mentioned most frequently in this context is Bert Weedon, a British guitarist whose instruction book Play in a Day was quite literally the manual for an entire generation of British rock musicians. McCartney, Harrison, Keith Richards, Eric Clapton, all of them were influenced by Weedon’s book, which made the basics of guitar accessible to working-class British kids in a way nothing else had. ✨ John’s Teardrop 🎵 While all three shared the home plate preference as a group default, John Lennon’s personal pick of choice evolved to a celluloid teardrop-shaped medium. Unassuming, common, the kind of pick that cost almost nothing and was easily lost and easily replaced. The teardrop medium was well suited to Lennon’s role in the band. He was primarily a rhythm guitarist — something he was somewhat defensive about during his lifetime but which musicologists have increasingly recognized as a brilliant and underrated skill. The chord-driven strumming and chopping that powered songs like “A Hard Day’s Night” and “I Feel Fine” was rhythm guitar work of a very high order, and a medium celluloid teardrop was exactly the right tool. Not too stiff to strum, not too floppy to lose definition. 🎸 George’s Evolution 🌟 George started where everyone starts: basic celluloid mediums, the standard issue of the era. His early playing on guitars like the Höfner Club 40 and then the Gretsch Duo Jet didn’t require anything more specialized. But as Harrison’s playing deepened—as he moved from competent lead guitarist to one of the most distinctive voices on the instrument—his approach to picks evolved alongside everything else. Over time, George adopted the 351 pick shape in medium celluloid, the same general family as where he started, but more deliberately chosen. The pick that let him move between the delicate fingerpicked passages he loved and the more aggressive lead work that appeared as the band’s music grew more complex. 🎶 Paul McCartney: The Bassist Who Never Got the Memo 🎸 The convention in bass playing, established well before McCartney ever touched the instrument, was fingerstyle. The great Motown bassists—James Jamerson chief among them, an artist McCartney genuinely admired—used their fingers. Fingerstyle gives bass a warmer, rounder tone with more dynamic variation. It was the accepted approach, the “proper” technique, the thing bass players just did. McCartney had none of this training and did not particularly care. A pick on the Höfner 500/1 violin bass produces a sharper, brighter attack than fingers would — more presence in the midrange, cleaner note separation, a sound that cuts through drums and guitars rather than sitting warmly beneath them. For the music the Beatles were making, this turned out to be exactly right. Those melodic, inventive, harmonically sophisticated bass lines that gradually became McCartney’s signature needed to be heard, not felt. One of the things that bugged Paul the most about Beatles records was that his bass, he thought, was never loud enough. Paul began the Beatles years with the “home plate,” and also heavier felt picks, giving a softer, rounder attack when the song called for it. Later in his career he settled on heavy Fender 351-style picks for bass work, switching picks when he moved between guitar and bass onstage. He reportedly became so attached to the tactile feedback of a pick that on tour, when the nail on his picking finger wore down, his wife Nancy suggested he get a fake nail applied to maintain consistent feel. 💅 It’s unclear whether Paul really used pennies for picks, but such a thing isn’t totally unheard of—Queen guitarist Brian May uses sixpence coins as a his signature guitar pick—he enjoys the “chime” effect created by the serrated edge. A footnote: In 2019, London’s Daily Mirror newspaper published several photos of someone who looks very much like McCartney placing coins on a railroad track. However, Paul wasn’t interviewed for the story. The Tiny Plastic Thing That Changed Everything ✨ It would be easy to dismiss the guitar pick as the most boring component of the Beatles’ gear—the thing you think about after you’ve finished discussing the Rickenbacker 325, the Höfner violin bass, the Vox AC30s, and George Martin’s arrangements. But picks are the interface. They’re what actually touches the string. Today, picks that were actually used by the Beatles are highly prized by collectors. A pick John used for rehearsals at his Madison Square Garden performance in 1972 sold for $2,560 a few years ago through Julien’s Auctions. As the legend goes, Paul’s journey started with flattened pennies on the Liverpool tracks. It ended with a sound that redefined the bass forever. The distance between those two points is one of the great arcs of rock history—a transformation fueled by a simple piece of celluloid or felt that changed everything in ways no one saw coming. 🎸✨ Visit my Beatles Store: Get full access to Beatles Rewind at beatlesrewind.substack.com/subscribe

    10 min

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