Mendelsohn: I have nothing bad to say about this album. Nothing. But I will suck it up and do my job as a critic and start critiquing. I have two words for you, Klinger: “Yellow Submarine”. Without Ringo’s dystopian little gem about a magical place where we all live in submarines and no one ever lapses into a claustrophobic rage, Revolver may very well be the perfect album. Prove me wrong.
Klinger: A bold statement, Mendelsohn, and one that’s awfully hard to dispute. But let’s take a Slate.com-like contrarian view here, if for no other reason than to generate some false controversy. After all, who doesn’t find the devil’s advocate delightful?
Even putting Ringo’s kiddie number aside, the individual songs on Revolver are actually kind of slight. McCartney offers up a soap opera melodrama, a pleasant little love song, a highly controversial ode to sunshine and a tune about weed. George bitches about having to pay taxes and messes around on a sitar. Lennon is the record’s MVP with two absolutely brilliant songs that would set the tone for the rest of the decade (“She Said, She Said” and “Tomorrow Never Knows”), but even he ends up writing a love song to his dealer.
And I’ve never liked the cover, either. There, I said it.