“Sub Rosa Subway” by Klaatu
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ShareThis was another group that benefited from rampant speculation. It was rumored that this otherwise obscure Canadian band was actually a secret “return” to performing by the Beatles, this track being conclusive proof of same. Radio stations playing the poppy track were convinced that the singers sounded “too much” like John Lennon and Paul McCartney for the tune to belong to anyone else, and such urban mythology propelled the bubbly track to the top of most FM playlists. Of course, if you listen closely, the passable progressive trio sounds little like everyone’s favorite mop tops, but that didn’t stop those of us anxious for any new Beatles material—real or fake—from grabbing our own copy.
The Mosquitoes from Gilligan’s Island
As usual, ‘conservative’ elements in the media thought the best way to handle something they didn’t understand was to mock it mercilessly. In their mind, the more you marginalized or minimized the power of a pop phenomenon, the easier it would be to get things back to the established ‘norm.’ Of course, such a pattern was nothing but a fool’s paradise, as Sherwood Schwartz’s crude comic take on the Beatles proved. While Bingo, Bango, Bongo, and Irving (LOL) were nothing very special (clunky caricatures in bad faux Carnaby Street fashions and even worse accents), the highlight of the episodes remains the comely castaways Ginger, MaryAnn and Mrs. Howell (?) singing the girl group inspired “You Need Us.”
“London Calling” by the Clash
It was the shout out heard ‘round the punk rock world. When Joe Strummer sneered that “phony Beatlemania (had) bitten the dust” as part of the first song on the Clash’s classic double LP, many took it as a snide disrespect toward Britain’s most famous sonic export. In actuality, the band meant it as a comment on their current state, a post-infamy freefall that saw bad business decisions and corporate interference marring the group’s ability to stand for what they wanted and simply create. While others have pointed to the sentiment as signifying a changing of the guard between the ‘60s and the ‘70s, I like to think that, unlike the media driven hysteria of decades past, Strummer and the gang were hoping for a more substance based appreciation. After all, if they could come close to achieving what John, Paul, George, and Ringo did, they might have been able to change the world.
“Fame” by David Bowie
As part of the “Next Beatles” campaign, we kids latched onto almost anything remotely related to the band- including this glam rock titan who, with this release, was entering his commercially viable “Thin White Duke” phase. The fact that a certain Mr. Lennon played a part in crafting the tune (and sang backup) helped sell us on the otherwise uncomfortably androgynous singer. You couldn’t go anywhere in 1975—pool party, roller rink, mall music store, parent’s basement—without hearing this endearing earworm. Who would have thought that an ex-Fab Four’s complaints about celebrity would turn into such an endemic hit?
The Monkees
They were unfairly slammed as “the Pre-Fab Four” a manufactured image meant to sell records, and nothing more. Yet the TV series which spawned the pseudo band remains a true comic delight, an envelope pushing enterprise which sees more counterculture conceits that almost anything the Beatles ever engaged in. Part Hard Day’s Night, with a smattering of Help! and other endemic Summer of Love sympathies, it stands as a truly unique entry in an era mostly know for copycatting and bandwagon hijacking. Sure, Mike, Peter, Davy, and Mickey would never be John, Paul, George, and Ringo, but they didn’t need to be. They forged their own safer, sillier legend all by themselves—and it’s just as potent today.
The Sex Pistols
I always wondered why one of my favorite bands of the ‘70s, the infamous UK bad boys, “sacked” bassist Glen Matlock for the atonal image overdrive of Sid Vicious. John Lyndon used to joke that the prolific songwriter and musical guide “washed his feet too much.” Others argued that he was more interested in turning the sodden safety pin-ups into something akin to the Bay City Rollers. But during one telling interview, guitarist Steve Jones latched onto what may be the real reason: Glen loved the Beatles. And their complex Beatles chords. And for a formidable “chugger” like Jonesy, such a clash of aesthetics didn’t fit. So Matlock was removed and that “fabulous disaster” Vicious came onboard. The rest is unrealized potential and hilarious bits of backwards glancing.
The Ed Sullivan Show
It was a Sunday night ritual in our house, a show that offered something for everyone—Mom, Dad, Grandma, Grandpa, sisters and brothers. Intermixed between the opera divas and Broadway stars, button down comedians and unusual international acts, the dour gossip columnist would occasionally offer the day’s hottest bands—and in 1965, none were more scorching than those four lads from Liverpool. I was four years old at the time, and remember staring in abject fascination as the group tore through six sublime sounds in their already impressive canon. It would be their last live appearance on Sullivan’s variety hour and my one and only memory of seeing the legendary act on such a TV showcase.
All You Need is Cash by The Rutles
If anyone could make “mocking” the Beatles cool, it was Monty Python’s Eric Idle. With collaboration from singular songwriter Neil Innes, the fictional band based on a certain ex-pop phenomenon was so spot-on that many of the spoof songs created—“Ouch!”, “Cheese and Onions”, “Piggy in the Middle”—formed their own lasting satiric heritage. To this day, I can’t hear the fake band’s albums without smiling in warm recognition and simulated satisfaction. While the TV special that inspired the music was equally amazing, The Rutles legacy remains their music—just like the four guys they set out to lampoon.
Paperback Writer: The Life and Times of the Beatles, the Spurious Chronicle of Their Rise to Stardom, Their Triumphs and Disasters, Plus the Amazing Story of Their Ultimate Reunion by Mark Shipper
There was a time when I had to own every book about the Beatles that there was. I poured over exposes on the whole ‘Paul is Dead’ urban myth, marveled at the insightful scholarship that deconstructed every song and album. I adored the artist interpretations of their lyrics and trying to decipher some PhD’s thesis on the group’s musical acumen. But this was the comic novel which taught me to moderate my fevered fandom with a bit more fun. Telling the story of how a fictional version of the band made it big, broke up, and ultimately got back together, there were elements of brilliance, as well as Benny Hill, in the frequently hilarious work. To this date, it rivals the Rutles as the ultimate attempt to humanize the Fab Four through humor. And it definitely succeeds.
In His Own Write and A Spaniard in the Works by John Lennon
Lennon’s literary side was unknown to most of us when a cocky college professor assigned us these two tomes as part of an ‘Introduction to Modern Fiction’ course. In some ways, he hoped to ridicule the former Beatle by showing that his pun heavy stream of consciousness was not new or novel but part of a long tradition of linguistic acrobatics and British wordplay. For a few, John’s stabs at humor seemed juvenile and far from the noted authors—Wilde, Buckley—he was often labeled with. Others thought he was a genius. Halfway through the second book, his death derailed any fruitful derisive discussion. From then on they became Bibles vs. objects to consider and criticize.
Beatlemania: The Broadway Revue
Billed as “Not The Beatles, but an Incredible Simulation, this 1977 quasi-concert saw actors and off stage musicians mimic the famous band’s career-long look and sound for adoring millions. After a two year run on the Great White Way, it took to touring the country. The closest I ever came to seeing it was passing by a marquee in Chicago: while the day-glo colors and Peter Max like poster art inspired interest, it just wasn’t the real thing. Today, we’d call it a well-produced tribute band. Back then, it was a last gasp hope at seeing history repeat.
Monday Night Football
Like many on that fateful night in December 1980, I was watching the New England Patriots battle the Miami Dolphins as part of ABC’s highly rating sports programming. I’ll never forget that awkward notion of having not paid attention fully as Howard Cosell announced the tragic shooting and death of Beatle John Lennon. As the news barely began to sink in, my father, perhaps the least pop musically cultured and concerned individual on the planet, shouted up to my bedroom. “Did you hear?” he said. “They killed Lennon.” Not John Lennon. Not Beatle John Lennon. Not that (expletive) from England. Just Lennon. Little did I know that in his seemingly limited celebrity purview, at least one member of the Fab Four had left an impression.
