“And in the end…” — on “Now and Then”, the ‘last’ Beatles song.
The Beatles were my first independently exercised musical preference.
Most of the pop music I came to appreciate as an adolescent (and which still forms a significant part of the acculturation of my identity as an artist and listener) can be traced to the influence of my parents’ collections — vinyls and cassettes, celebrating the shag-carpet, faux-wood-paneled milieu of the 70s, and heavy on singer-songwriters: Paul Simon, Carole King, Jim Croce, Carly Simon, &c. And, because we had a pianist in the house (mom), there was no question that Billy Joel and Elton John held prominence.
But, apart from one novelty docu-album with lots of talking and little (if any?) tunes, the recorded legacy of the Beatles was not something on hand in our home library. My knowledge of their songs came from what I heard on the radio, and it was doubtless the handful of predictable top 10’s from the early British Invasion days. It wasn’t until I saw a Beatlemania-esque revue at a local summer stock theater in the summer of ’94 that I gained a better awareness of the middle- and late-period Beatles, and thus came to realize that I’d been missing out on the best stuff all along.
The seven (7!) year arc of the Beatles’ initial creative period (‘62-’69) still staggers me. I can’t remember exactly when this thought arose, but at some point in my academic career I was struck at the idea of rationalizing said span of time in collegiate terms:
“Love Me Do” to “Let It Be” = the duration of a freshman fall semester to a master’s degree, with a gap year;
Rubber Soul and Revolver as an undergrad senior capstone (George always did consider them a kind of joint, 2-volume sort of project);
Abbey Road as master’s thesis.
Not to mention they were only a few years older than the traditional age of students who are on such a path. I am (as I was, back in summer ’93, in the audience of that show) bewildered and captivated by the breadth and variety of their growth and achievement as twenty-something musicians.
So, fast-forward to Christmas of that year, whereupon this 12-year old excitedly finds two firsts for his household under the tree: a CD player and, as requested on his Xmas wish list, the starting inventory of his *own* music library: Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. Little did he know that he was on the cusp of something massive.
[I’m not referring to his (my) burgeoning collection of recordings, which has now been schlepped around the Northeast multiple times and most recently across the continental US.]
(And no, I’m not soliciting your insights on downloads or ripping the discs to a drive. Long live physical media.)
The “something massive” coming my way was the onset, only a year later, of a fertile renaissance for the Fab Four. The multimedia bombardment of the Anthology project gave rise to a surprising second act for the Beatles, which reaffirmed their rightful place as the central power source of the pop music solar system. <Hits ::Play:: on “Here Comes the Sun”>.
(The strongest argument in support of this claim might actually come from the opposition, as dislike of the Beatles never presents mildly but tends to appear as a proudly, all-encompassing personality trait which steadfastly refuses to acknowledge their influence in a bemusedly charming-in-its-obliviousness manner. It’s a sort of cultural Flat-Earther behavior and, as such, calls into question why–if their music is so insignificant–should it warrant a reaction that “doth protest too much” in this way…)
The Beatles’ second act has continued, somewhat unabated, from the mid-’90s until the present. And the arrival of today’s long-mythologized swan song track, “Now and Then”, has acted as a bittersweet reminder of how fortunate I was (am) for the coincidence of my initial interest in their music with that renaissance.
An interest, as I’ve mentioned, that was independently fostered and thus one that gives me particular pride of ownership.
So then, with regard to this “new” song, in the works since the Anthology era, and marketed as the “last” Beatles song?
… I love it.
And for many reasons, including admittedly sentimental, nostalgic ones.
To my ears, “Now and Then” is a masterly hybrid of Lennon’s Plastic Ono Band-esque simplicity with the dreamy harmonic spaciousness of songs like “#9 Dream”. The song, originating from a cassette demo John made at home before his death, matches with the new-sincerity sentiments heard in his final album Double Fantasy.
On this foundation, the surviving Beatles (first three, then two… ugh…) built an arrangement which honors the sonic studio-as-instrument quality of their work from the mid-’60s and echoed in their subsequent solo albums–the orchestral guitar textures of All Things Must Pass; the ‘ear-pressed-to-the-gear’ bass and percussion of Band On The Run.
There is intrigue in stuff like this which arises out of a long-simmering mythology. It’s one of the funny things about getting older; I recall times many years past with my friends, when we’d daydreamily ponder the likelihood of any reissue of the long-hidden Let It Be documentary film, or the full version of SMiLE as Brian Wilson envisioned it before abandoning it, and himself in the process. The fact that we felt not-entirely-hopeful about ever truly knowing these things is so cute now that both have successfully seen the light of day.
With “Now and Then”, there’s so much to say about the sheer sonics, but it really can’t be articulated any better than perhaps the most obvious observation:
…it sounds like the Beatles. And, friends, I am *here* for it.
There is a cottage industry of independent literature that tries to forensically discern who, precisely, of the Lennon/McCartney partnership is responsible for each individual syllable, note, rhythm, sound effect, &c. of their creative output. We also have the evidence of their solo careers where, independent of each other, we’re able to more clearly discern the essential oils of what makes John sound like John, and Paul sound like Paul.
Through that lens of hindsight is revealed perhaps the greatest reward of “Now and Then”: it carries a balance of Lennon/McCartney fingerprints through and through, in a way that (I’m not ashamed to admit) truly moved me. The way that I still get a lump in my throat when Paul and George exchange the “whatever happened to…” phrases in “Free as a Bird”, or the lush, 3-part harmonies on the chorus of “Real Love”, indelibly comparable to the verse arrangements of “If I Needed Someone” or the closing vocal phrase of “The End” from Abbey Road. And, as told in Peter Jackson’s short documentary on the making of the song, the technology utilized to complete it allowed much greater flexibility in the collaborative process of all four bandmates, past and present. Take a moment and consider the remarkable existence of an artistic document by the Beatles ranging in ages from late-20s to early-80s.
Which, I freely admit, makes me a sucker for the technological marvel that made this song possible. I’m talking about the AI-assisted track separation that enabled the original John cassette to be cleaned and the recorded elements (voice and piano) isolated.
[It’s the only artistic application of AI that I’m thus far aware of that doesn’t cause me immediate existential dread, but we don’t have to get into that.]
I’ve been a sucker like this for all the reissued albums of the past decade, though, much of which predates the AI onslaught. It happens like clockwork: a reissue is announced for release; I think to myself “do I *really* need another copy of Revolver?”; I then hear it, and the refreshed, revealing quality of these songs I know so well, newly appearing as though they were recorded yesterday… and next thing you know I dash to acquire a copy as soon as is humanly possible.
Why? Because it brings me *closer* to them, which, after all these years of listening, I find myself still wanting.
I want to be in the room with them as they work. I want to know that energy. I recently relocated to Los Angeles, and my Spider-Sense still tingles when GoogleMaps navigates me through the intersection of Sunset and Gower, knowing I’m only a few feet from the room where Pet Sounds was recorded. You can only imagine the effect the recent Get Back documentary had on my nervous system.
(On my trips to London in college I actively avoided making the tourist’s pilgrimage to the Abbey Road crosswalk, in fear that, should I put myself in close proximity to the place, my nervous system might *actually* explode.)
CODA:
There is a sad but potent poetry in how John’s unfinished ideas have come to serve as both a placeholder for his participation in any semblance of a “reunion,” as well as the horizon line the group navigated on as they got older. But that is most certainly a feature of the point they’ve made with these songs, and not a bug. If there’s one thing “Now and Then” reminds us, it’s that there is power in the simplicity of pure human connection. And though I made allusions (above) to this song situating within the forward trajectory of the Beatles’ remarkably evolving style, I think (after multiple listens) its greatest asset is how it carries the unique intensity of the band’s simplest straightforward utterances– think “All You Need Is Love”, or “In My Life”, or “I Will”. Imagine the bar of expectation being set for Paul and Ringo to deliver on the promise of a new, final Beatles song, seven decades into the band’s existence. In my opinion, their choice to bring forth a humble, leanly-structured reflection on what the unique synergy of their quartet means to them is a wise and enduring homage to their musical legacy.
Thus, as a devotee, I can’t help but feel gratitude for a new addition to that legacy. It carries the power to remind me of those instances when I was first getting to know the music of the Beatles, and how influential those instances were on the person I am today. As the years go by it might be hard for me to fathom a time when I didn’t know “I Am The Walrus”, given I adopted the AIM screen name “Eggman0067” for over a decade not long after hearing it. It’s hard to imagine hitting ::Play:: for the first time on “Dig A Pony”, having long ago folded that opening riff into warm-ups when I pick up my guitar or bass.
But on occasions like today, getting to hear a new song by my favorite band after all these years immediately transports my mind and soul back to that 25th of December 1993, laying on the blue-shag carpeted floor of my bedroom, spinning that Sgt. Pepper CD for the first time on its shiny new player. Right from the sound-collage intro of its title track, all the way through to the shattering E-Major chord that concludes “A Day In The Life”, I somehow knew on that Christmas that my ears/mind/soul would never be the same.
And so, if the Anthology collections are ever reissued (a safe bet), my Xmas wish would be for the three “reunion” tracks to appear in reverse order of their initial release — “Now and Then” should partner with the Beatles’ earliest efforts, “Real Love” centered with the music made at the height of their creative powers, and “Free As A Bird” as a parting thought, eye toward the future. I also hope the earlier reunion tracks might be revisited with the new audio technology applied, to put them on sonic par with this new tune, which easily sounds the best of the three.
Actually, after listening to “Now and Then”, I skipped over to Anthology 1 to give a fresh listen to “Free as a Bird”. Immediately after that song, the next track on the disc, is archival tape of John speaking:
…and that’s what “Now and Then” is really about.
