In The Town Where I Was Born

One day, should the opportunity arise, you might walk into my living room. It is a cosy little space. One wall is mint green and the curtains are beige; Edith Wharton would have a field day. Within this perimeter, there are three distinctive features: the family photographs, the books, and the music collection. The former is an expansive trove as comprehensive as the National Archives. You’ll observe the usual countless school portraits – awkward fringes, unconvinced expressions, higgledy-piggledy teeth aplenty – as well as various other uncomfortable photographs taken on a prehistoric digital camera where someone has a double-chin, someone is mid-sneeze, and someone else is blinking. And we have a book problem – numerous shelves brimming with numerous tomes. I would go so far as to wager that the deforestation crisis could be blamed on our household. It’s a confused melting pot; two bookshelves overflow with classics and memoirs and detective fiction whilst the third accommodates war and revolution and Hitler and Stalin. I think Sir Alex Ferguson is also on that shelf for some reason.

Then, there’s the sound system. It might look a tad ropey compared to some but it sure does pack a punch. Adjacent stands a bookcase housing sixty-ish CDs. There’s more on another bookcase and I, being raised in that transitional era between the physical and the digital, have amassed around a hundred questionable choices of my own. These are stowed away in my bedroom, never to see the light of day (with any luck). The real centrepiece, however, is the record collection. Three shelves worth: hundreds upon hundreds. Dad has them set out in a particular order but I can never remember what his system is. I don’t think he can either.

Yellow Submarine has always been an elusive record. It is the only Beatles record that dad (obsessive fan) does not own and does not wish to own. I didn’t realise until four years ago or so that Yellow Submarine was even considered a studio album. General opinion seems rather tentative. The first time I listened to it – cover-to-cover, if you will – was upon Spotify releasing the band’s entire discography. A friend and I flirted with the midnight hours, reliving their complete collection in crisp remastered form. Good Night had concluded. Onto Come Together? No. We let Yellow Submarine roll.

Dad believed that the record didn’t constitute as a proper studio album. Neither did The Beatles themselves. This was because, being released on 13th January 1969, it was issued a mere two months succeeding The Beatles, or, The White Album, a fully-fledged double-LP. Further, Yellow Submarine served as the soundtrack to their homonymous 1968 movie. Due to this, the project was considered a contractual obligation; the group were asked to produce four original songs to support it. These four new compositions – alongside prior releases Yellow Submarine and All You Need Is Love – formulated the first side. The second side, composed and arranged by the band’s long-time producer George Martin, comprised of the film’s instrumental orchestral score. Is that enough to brand this enigmatic record less valid? Is this not an insult to Martin’s own musical prowess?

Yellow Submarine opens with the title track. Lennon and McCartney had intended from the outset that Starr’s vocal contribution to 1966’s Revolver should be a juvenile impish one. A swashbuckling composition, Yellow Submarine sits marvellously amid the populism that Revolver (the greatest album ever in my completely unbiased and impartial opinion!) embodies. In a similar vein, it is rather remarkable that such a song – written off by most as camp melodrama – is able to spearhead an entire movie and accompanying album. It is apt that Starr vocalises: the spotlight is placed on the ebullient drummer who assumed the main narrative arc in the previous three Beatles films; indeed, there is a resounding communality to the gesture which permeates through the album as a whole. In a cyclical move, Yellow Submarine in Pepperland serves as the orchestral reprise which concludes the second side. You could totally sing this on a road-trip. Or a bus. It’s far better than Wheels On The Bus.

This jauntiness is continued through tracks such as All Together Now. This McCartney composition, which emits cohesion and cooperation in the title alone, befits an optimistic animation soundtrack. The chorus plays out as a rhythmic recital sandwiched between nursery rhyme verses and chants. It is a song aimed at children which, when listening as an adult, is a grower. The placement alongside Only A Northern Song and Hey Bulldog is quite jarring, though, and lacks the togetherness the song attempts to encapsulate. I would suggest that it works well as an upbeat placeholder but is probably not something a commercial audience would elect to listen to outside the movie’s sphere.

Half of the original compositions included on the album were penned and sang by Harrison. It’s All Too Much is bathed in swirling psychedelic horns and backwards instruments. The imagery depicts a drug-induced spiritual encounter that is probably not appropriate subject matter for a children’s animation but is, nonetheless, fantastical and imaginative. Only A Northern Song, though nothing particularly special, is characteristically Harrison: detached and disorderly, ethereal and cynical. One wonders whether Harrison, in suggesting that “it doesn’t really matter what chords I play / what words I say,” is implying that consumer culture will eat up any nonsense the band release. Or perhaps this is, instead, a comment on his dissatisfaction as a secondary songwriter with the Beatles’ publishing company, Northern Songs Ltd., and the tell-tale start of a creative fissure in the band.

I would be surprised to stumble across someone who has never heard a single Beatles song. Should such a person exist, I would kindly point them in Hey Bulldog’s direction. In my opinion this is the quintessential Beatles track, encompassing playful ad-libs with a ferocious guitar solo, swaggering piano and bass lines, and dynamic collaboration between Lennon and McCartney. On that note, Hey Bulldog is distinctive for being one of the band’s last group efforts: each member contributed parts to the overall composition. And it works. The second predominantly Lennon song on Yellow Submarine serves as the closing track to side one. All You Need Is Love, initially released on 1967’s Magical Mystery Tour, is aflush with creative energy; the coda includes La Marseillaise, Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto No. 2, Miller’s In The Mood, Greensleeves, and an improvised rendition of the band’s own She Loves You. This diverse selection, paired with the lyrical content and the call-and-response techniques, seem like the ideal end to the communal and inclusive Yellow Submarine.

Rounding out the album, Yellow Submarine’s second side is heaving with Martin’s genius. His scores feel somewhat dated compared to the Beatles’ own compositions but such is to be expected from an animation in this period. Being rather averse to instrumentals, particularly seven in a row, I find each section fairly difficult to discern from the next. For me, they aren’t particularly memorable when situated next to the pulsating beats and intriguing lyrical endeavours the first side presents the listener with. It is important to remember that this is their function, though. They are supposed to be background music, and they are supposed to overlap their corresponding segments. One would presume that you’re supposed to focus on the animation and the music in conjunction with one another. The same impact would be generated upon observing the animation in complete silence, I would imagine.

Nevertheless, Martin’s score is somewhat nostalgic. Pepperland is saturated with an uplifting string ensemble, and conjures a vibrant image. It is comparable to an early Sims instrumental. You know when the neighbourhood is loading? That’s what it sounds like, although a little more optimistic and organic. And that’s no bad thing. March of the Meanies, on the other hand, is far more insistent and sinister. It is still heavily driven by strident bass and strings. I believe the nostalgia lies in these instruments in their purest form. Likewise, Pepperland Laid Waste encompasses orchestral swells and climaxes to elicit tension and mirror the despondency in the film.

Sea of Time, Sea of Holes, and Sea of Monsters seem to align with one another. The former is the most distinguishable, playing upon the familiar winding melody – and the Indian instrumental influences - found in Harrison’s Pepper composition Within You, Without You. The erratically ascending and descending strings offer suspense, tension and a floundering uncertainty. Just as Sea of Holes and Sea of Monsters carry forth, it is enjoyable and unavoidable to visualise a progressing narrative in your mind’s eye. This is due to the pitch and chord changes, as well as the implications the focal instruments provoke. Sea of Monsters interpolates Bach’s Air on the G String towards the end, and inspired the backwards harp in Sea of Holes. As previously mentioned, these tracks – as their titles might suggest – seem as though they would make more sense when paired with visuals, but are positive in that they allow inspiration and imagination free reign.

On reflection, this album is rather forgettable, a word never often associated with the band. It confuses itself. It is marketed as a Beatles album, but manifests as a Martin one. This is not to say that Martin was not a fantastic composer and arranger. He most certainly was. However, the album is supposed to be a band one, which is probably where the disappointment occurs now and occurred at the time. Despite this, Yellow Submarine is meant to be fun, rehashed and playful. It is not designed to be high-brow artistic expression. The album is still a worthy one and it is unfair to write it off completely; Yellow Submarine is, in all, emblematic of an equally rehashed and disconcerting historical moment in the band’s career.