by Nick Deriso and Pico

We are a couple of music reviewers who are proud of our divergent tastes. Nick's got you covered from David Allen Coe to Marcus Roberts, while Pico swerves wildly between The Subdudes and John Scofield.

But there's a place we come together (heh): The Beatles. A conversation we had the other day in the wake of the "Hey Bulldog" rave-up revealed that we share a lot of the same favorite non-hit Beatles songs. From there, an idea was born.

So in the spirit of John Lennon and Paul McCartney's songwriting partnership we decided to collaborate on writing a piece listing our favorite, lesser-known Beatles songs and take turns explaining why we think they're… so heavy.

I Me Mine
Nick:
A taut, unjustly forgotten gem — and one of the few songs Phil Spector didn't muck up on the Let It Be project. Here, his swirling strings add the perfect portent as Harrison delves into a favorite subject: How we're all really bastards, deep down.

Pico:
Phil also gets props for picking out the best take, which was only a minute and a half long, and deftly stretching it to full-song length. Even this song-lengthening edit survived the de-Spectorization that occurred for Let It Be… Naked. George lashes out at the mighty human ego on "Mine," which is in a way an ironic counter-point to "Taxman" (tackled below). This is also the last song the Beatles recorded prior to breakup, and John wasn't even around for it.

Hey Bulldog
Pico:
I already covered this one back in July, but one thing I failed to note back then was George's contribution. Consistent with the relaxed mood prevalent during the February, 1968 mini-sessions, Harrison reels off a loose, jangly solo characteristic of his knack for providing not the most flashy guitar work, but the one that fits the song just right. He was like having a crack session guitarist inside the band.

Nick:
This has the fun, loose and collaborative feel of the best of the group's early work, notable since by this point The Beatles were really just a backing group for whoever composed any particular track. As they howl, moan, and bark their way through a rollicking little aside, you remember not just what made these two remarkably listenable rock composers — but also what made Lennon and McCartney friends.

Getting Better
Nick:
I relish Lennon's drive-by cynicism on fluffy little tracks like this from McCartney. Paul, as he often will, threatens to float right off while the soaring chorus builds behind him. But no sooner does he sing "it's getting better all the time," then we have Lennon dropping anchor: "Can't get no worse." "Getting Better" might not be the best example of this brilliant balancing act — for that, head over to the worn copies of "We Can Work It Out" — but it certainly ranks as a tucked-away favorite in the genre. Great guitar riff, too.

Pico:
Musically, it's milking a single chord for all it's worth. Lyrically, it's as Nick noted, an example of the dichotomy of the sunny outlook of Paul and the skepticism of John. And like a brief afternoon thunderstorm popping up to spoil a perfect day, George swoops in with a tamboura while Lennon — via the lyrics — plainly alludes to his women beating days before Paul's eternal optimism breaks up the clouds again. That "magic" chord gets really pervasive at the end, courtesy of George Martin striking the strings inside a piano. Paul's cheerfulness wins the battle, but John's counterpoint makes that battle so much more interesting.

Good Day Sunshine
Nick:
A shimmering, head-wagging explosion power pop that has never, and can never, get old — because it's as deep as it is joyful. There's the rolling piano signature, that gauntlet-tossing finish (match that, Beach Boys!), and a lyric made for days when the weather is nice enough to roll down your windows and drive a bit.

Pico
The harmonies belting out the title really make this song special. Paul goes high while John handles the low notes. This unabashedly happy-go-lucky tune is one of the earlier instances where McCartney draws more from the music of his parent's generation than his own for inspiration. He would go overboard with that later but for now, his mojo is working.

Taxman
Pico:
Not exactly uncommon, but not issued as a single, either. George's anticipatory count off grabs the listener even before meaty power chords that shortly follow do. What's more notable are his lyrics: a direct attack on the British government for it's confiscatory tax policies. Political songs in rock music were still just getting started in 1966, and "Taxman" remains one of more ornery examples compared to the many that appeared over the following years. Sending young men to die at Vietman was outrageous enough, but hell hath no fury like taxing a man to death. NOTE: that wicked, skittering guitar at the instrumental break is not Harrison; Paul provided this short but memorable solo.

Nick:
George was always good for a nasty putdown song, an impulse that would nicely balance his tendency toward hugs-and-Hari Krishna tunes later in life. This was one he got completely right. Now, that praise is tempered by the oft-told rumor that George used the theme song from "Batman," a favorite TV show of his in the 1960s, as inspiration for the melody. (Holy kitsch, Batman!) And that Paul did the guitar work. And that Lennon also helped with the lyics. (You can really see his fingerprint on the lyrics matching car/street, sit/seat, cold/heat and walk/heat.) Wait, what exactly did George do on this one, again?

No Reply
Nick:
One of the earliest Beatles songs with a complete story, inventive in that it has no chorus as such, and notable for the low rumbling tone of Lennon's voice — since it so completely captures the mood of a scorned lover. He builds to an anguished cry ("I saw the light" becomes "I nearly DIED") in an early glimpse of the pain that, up until this point, had been largely obscured by first-blush imagery involving hairstyle and yeah-yeah-yeahs.

Originally on Beatles for Sale, and issued on the U.S. edit Beatles '65, "No Reply" was an initial step down a path of personal revelation and unbridled honesty that would find its creative and artistic peak in Lennon's first solo release five years later. John reportedly wanted to sing the high harmony, handled here by McCartney, but couldn't coax his voice there because of wear and tear from the band's then-excessive touring schedule. "No Reply," a dark and special triumph, was better for it.

Pico:
John had one of the best singing voices in all of rock 'n' roll. And I think it's mainly due to his unmatched ability to naturally project scorn, frustration, anger, and pessimism. Real rock 'n' roll often has those qualities, after all. That wonderfully ragged throat is on full display on "No Reply." Lennon's attitude comes across so effectively, you'd hardly notice that it's a rock 'n' roll song played with acoustic guitars, an acoustic piano and a slightly Latin beat.

Martha, My Dear
Pico:
A light, pop confection that served as a respite from all the weirdness and unpredictability that graced most of The White Album, Paul wrote this as a ode to his English sheepdog, which also adds to the appearance of this being filler. But when viewed with the benefit of hindsight, it is his Beatles song that most anticipated the kind of pop he had a great deal of success making with his seventies band Wings. Which means, as with his Wings best, it's a tightly constructed melody that's catchy as hell. If he had chosen to re-record the song during the Denny Laine days with a little more production added to it, he would have easily had another hit on his hands.

Nick:
Confectionary, sure, yet somehow unforgettable. I listen, each time, in wonder — thinking: McCartney can write a song about his flipping dog, and I like it.

Mother Nature's Son
Nick:
Think about what follows on this record: a song about a monkey, a song about a roller coaster (or, the clarion call of end times; who knew?), the oh-so-appropriately titled "Long, Long, Long," a vaudeville tune, a song about a dessert treat, several minutes of noise loops and a nighty-night lullaby, among others. On a hodge-podge compilation where everybody goes all over the map, McCartney often provided the centering point — and never better than on this one.

Pico:
This is a very simply constructed; as a teenager playing mediocre guitar, I was able to self teach myself the song rather easily. But Paul's straightforward folk hymn had simple beauty to match; it flowed out naturally and George Martin's orchestral arrangements that gently nudge their way into the song on the second verse provide just the right amount of heft without needlessly weighing it down.

Dear Prudence
Pico:
After breakup, Lennon often mocked Paul's ballad tendencies, but John was just as capable to pour syrup as his erstwhile songwriting partner. "Prudence" was not just one of his best ballads, it was one of his best songs, period. Inspired by that ill-fated trip to India in 1968, the song's lyrics reads like a letter; a letter to actress Mia Farrow's sister, actually, both of whom had also made the pilgrimage to see the Maharishi. The descending chord progression is sublime and the backing vocals are just a tad creepy; creepy enough to tell you that this is Lennon's song, not McCartney's. Although Macca provided a mighty sweet looping bass line (as well as the drums, since Ringo had briefly quit the band).

Nick:
I think, on most days, that this is one of my favorite Beatles songs. And I can't always say why. After all, Lennon showed he could out-McCartney McCartney with these lyrics: The sun is up, the sky is blue — it's beautiful, and so are you. Maybe it's that there is a simple beauty here, an open-hearted emotion that Lennon didn't often allow himself to express. I never want this tune's simple charm, or that bassline, to end.

You Never Give Me Your Money
Pico:
Paul's song that kicks off the famous medley on side two of Abbey Road is a four minute mini-medley itself. It begins with a piano stating the melodic line of the first part and McCartney singing about not being given any money (what is really meant here is unclear to me). Soon, it transitions over to a more up-tempo rhythm and mood with Paul singing much like he did for "Lady Madonna." And then after some tasty lead guitar work by George during a second transition, the song enters the "sweet dreams" section. So, the song is really a pasting together of three seemingly unrelated frgments, but it works because all fragments are catchy and the harmony/backing vocals throughout are first rate; nearly as good as the rich vocals that graced Lennon's "Because" right before it.

Nick:
One of the initial song-cycles-within-a-song concepts by McCartney. Too bad Paul was just getting started. By the time we get to Wings' "Red Rose Speedway" a couple of short years later, McCartney has transformed a pretty good idea into nothing more than a handy way to tidy up his work station. But even those mashed-together edit jobs of half-finished song ideas can't tarnish this terrific effort. When I only have time for a moment with Abbey Road, you'll find me here, enveloped in a towering achievement that manages to fit in the personality, verve and specificity of each band member — even while deftly recognizing, by the final repeated chorus, both the hopeful optimism and crashing cynicism of the 1960s. I know, that's a lot. It's all in there. The last best thing this group ever did.

Everybody's got their favorite Beatles non-hits. What are yours?