Listen to the Beatles’ Christmas Records: Seven Vintage Recordings for Their Fans (1963 — 1969)

1963:

Every year from 1963 to 1969, the Bea­t­les record­ed a spe­cial Christ­mas greet­ing to their fans. It start­ed when “Beat­le­ma­nia” took off and the band found itself unable to answer all the fan mail.  “I’d love to reply per­son­al­ly to every­one,” says Lennon in the 1963 mes­sage, “but I just haven’t enough pens.” The first mes­sage was intend­ed to make their most loy­al fans feel appre­ci­at­ed. Like those that fol­lowed, the 1963 mes­sage was mailed as a paper-thin vinyl “flexi disc” to mem­bers of the Bea­t­les fan club. The record­ing fea­tures the Bea­t­les’ trade­mark wit and whim­sy, with a cho­rus of “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Ringo” and a ver­sion of “Good King Wences­las” that refers to Bet­ty Grable. It was made on Octo­ber 17, 1963 at Abbey Road Stu­dios, just after the band record­ed “I Want to Hold Your Hand.”

1964:

The band record­ed their next hol­i­day greet­ing, Anoth­er Bea­t­les Christ­mas Record, on Octo­ber 26, 1964, the same day they record­ed the song “Hon­ey Don’t.” Lennon’s rebel­lious nature begins to show, as he pokes fun at the pre­pared script: “It’s some­body’s bad hand wrot­er.”

1965:

Record­ed on Novem­ber 8, 1965 dur­ing the Rub­ber Soul ses­sions at Abbey Road, the 1965 mes­sage fea­tures a re-work­ing of “Yes­ter­day,” with the refrain “Oh I believe on Christ­mas Day.” The band’s gift for free-asso­ci­a­tion­al role play­ing is becom­ing more appar­ent. One piece of dia­logue near the end was even­tu­al­ly re-used by pro­duc­er George Mar­tin and his son Giles at the end of the re-mixed ver­sion of “All You Need is Love” on the 2006 album Love: “All right put the lights off. This is John­ny Rhythm say­ing good night to you all and God Bless­es.”

1966:

You can sense the band’s cre­ative pow­ers grow­ing in the 1966 mes­sage, Pan­tomime: Every­where It’s Christ­mas. The record­ing was made at Abbey Road on Novem­ber 25, 1966, dur­ing a break from work­ing on “Straw­ber­ry Fields For­ev­er.” The Bea­t­les were just begin­ning work on Sgt. Pep­per’s Lone­ly Heart’s Club Band. Instead of sim­ply thank­ing their fans and recount­ing the events of the year, the Bea­t­les use sound effects and dia­logue to cre­ate a vaude­ville play based around a song that goes, “Every­where it’s Christ­mas, at the end of every year.” Paul McCart­ney designed the cov­er.

1967:


This was the last Christ­mas mes­sage record­ed by the Bea­t­les all togeth­er in one place. Titled Christ­mas Time (Is Here Again), it reveals the group’s con­tin­u­ing exper­i­men­ta­tion with sound effects and sto­ry­telling. The sce­nario, writ­ten by the band ear­li­er on the day it was record­ed (Novem­ber 28, 1967), is about a group of peo­ple audi­tion­ing for a BBC radio play. Lennon and Ringo Starr designed the cov­er.

1968:

By the Christ­mas sea­son of 1968, rela­tions with­in the Bea­t­les were becom­ing strained. The hol­i­day mes­sage was pro­duced around the time the “White Album” was released, in Novem­ber of 1968. The four mem­bers’ voic­es were record­ed sep­a­rate­ly, in var­i­ous loca­tions. There’s plen­ty of self-mock­ery. Per­haps the most strik­ing moment comes when the Amer­i­can singer Tiny Tim (invit­ed by George Har­ri­son) strums a ukulele and sings “Nowhere Man” in a high falset­to.

1969:

The Bea­t­les were in the process of break­ing up when they record­ed (sep­a­rate­ly) their final Christ­mas mes­sage in Novem­ber and Decem­ber of 1969. A cou­ple of months ear­li­er, just before the release of Abbey Road, Lennon had announced to the oth­ers that he was leav­ing the group. Yoko Ono appears promi­nent­ly on the record­ing, singing and talk­ing with Lennon about peace. Fit­ting­ly, the 1969 mes­sage incor­po­rates a snip­pet from the Abbey Road record­ing of “The End.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Bea­t­les: Unplugged Col­lects Acoustic Demos of White Album Songs (1968)

Peter Sell­ers Reads The Bea­t­les’ “She Loves You” in Four Dif­fer­ent Accents

The 10-Minute, Nev­er-Released, Exper­i­men­tal Demo of The Bea­t­les’ “Rev­o­lu­tion” (1968)

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The Rolling Stones “Shattered” Covered by Eddie Vedder & Julie Andrews (Ok, It’s Really Jeanne Tripplehorn)

Pearl Jam front­man Eddie Ved­der and actress Jeanne Trip­ple­horn (Basic Instinct, The Firm, Big Love) per­formed this delight­ful cov­er of The Rolling Stones’ 1978 hit “Shat­tered” at a recent fundrais­er for a non-prof­it called Heal EB. EB stands for Epi­der­mol­y­sis Bul­losa, a dis­ease that caus­es blis­ters (some­times poten­tial­ly fatal ones) to erupt on the skin after the mildest trau­ma. You can lis­ten to The Rolling Stones’ orig­i­nal record­ing here, and fol­low along with the lyrics here. Or, bet­ter yet, you can close your eyes and sim­ply imag­ine Julie Andrews singing these risqué‎ lines. Yeah, on sec­ond thought, do that. H/T Marc

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Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch the Rolling Stones Write “Sym­pa­thy for the Dev­il”: A High­light in Godard’s ’68 Film One Plus One

The Rolling Stones Jam With Their Idol, Mud­dy Waters

The Rolling Stones Sing Jin­gle for Rice Krispies Com­mer­cial (1964)

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Teacher Helps His Student Overcome Stuttering and Read Poetry, Using the Sound of Music

Musharaf Asghar, a stu­dent at Thorn­hill Acad­e­my in north­east Eng­land, over­came an acute stam­mer when his teacher, Matthew Bur­ton, bor­rowed an idea from The King’s Speech. The teacher asked his stu­dent to put on some head­phones play­ing the music of Ben Howard, and to start recit­ing a poem called ‘The Moment.’ Sud­den­ly, for the first time, the words began to flow. All of this was cap­tured in a doc­u­men­tary series, Edu­cat­ing York­shire, that aired on the BBC. The seg­ment above con­cludes with Mushy, as he’s known, giv­ing a short talk in front of his class, at what looks like a grad­u­a­tion cer­e­mo­ny. It did­n’t take long for his fel­low stu­dents to break down in tears.

Writ­ing recent­ly in The Guardian, the stu­dent recalls. “My nerves over speak­ing in assem­bly were TERRIBLE though. I did­n’t realise how big 200 peo­ple looks like. I was sweat­ing and I had a lit­tle wob­ble but even­tu­al­ly, I man­aged to get through it. I was excit­ed, if ner­vous, about the whole thing going out. But I’m real­ly hap­py and proud to be on tel­ly as I hope it gives oth­er peo­ple with a stam­mer the con­fi­dence to have a go at pub­lic speak­ing. My speech is get­ting bet­ter every week. Every­one at col­lege gives me time, but I’m get­ting quick­er any­way so they don’t miss their bus while they are lis­ten­ing to me. I still won’t be apply­ing for any call-cen­tre jobs yet though.” Find more infor­ma­tion on how music ther­a­py can help peo­ple over­come stut­ter­ing here.

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via @courosa

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Listen to the 1963 Song the Beatles Gave to the Stones; Then Hear Them Sing Backup on a 1967 Stones Tune, “We Love You”

After read­ing some of the ency­clo­pe­dic com­ments on this NPR site fea­tur­ing author and pro­fes­sor John McMil­lian—who has writ­ten a new book on The Bea­t­les vs. The Stones—and after hear­ing McMil­lan him­self tell his “reveal­ing, behind the scenes sto­ries” in the inter­view below, I’m fair­ly cer­tain we’re in good his­tor­i­cal hands for a reap­praisal of the two bands’ friend­ly rival­ry. McMil­lan dis­cuss­es their first meet­ing and ear­li­est col­lab­o­ra­tion, the track above, 1963’s “I Wan­na Be Your Man,” writ­ten by, and cred­it­ed to, John Lennon and Paul McCart­ney.

The song was the result of a chance encounter, we learn from Stones his­to­ri­an Bill Janowitz: “[Stones man­ag­er Andrew Loog] Old­ham had almost lit­er­al­ly bumped into Lennon and McCart­ney as they stepped out of a cab.” Old­ham brought The Bea­t­les into the stu­dio and the song was born from a McCart­ney frag­ment. The Stones had to this point only released Amer­i­can R&B or blues cov­ers, though they also turned this track into a bluesy stom­per. Hear The Bea­t­les decid­ed­ly less grit­ty ver­sion of the song below, over a mon­tage of their ear­ly six­ties British com­e­dy act that the Mon­kees stole so well. They released this three weeks lat­er, giv­ing the lead vocal to Ringo.

Despite Tom Wolfe’s quip that “The Bea­t­les want to hold your hand but the Stones want to burn down your town,” the ear­ly six­ties ver­sions of both bands looked very much alike. Until the late six­ties, the Stones were often a step behind The Bea­t­les’ image. They appear on the cov­er of 1965’s Out of My Head in mod­ish dress with mod­ish hair­cuts look­ing almost exact­ly like their coun­ter­parts. 1967’s Their Satan­ic Majesties Request, for its occa­sion­al beau­ty, was an obvi­ous and slight­ly ridicu­lous attempt to cap­i­tal­ize on Sgt. Pepper’s psy­che­del­ic suc­cess.

But even dur­ing those times, the bands diverged sharply in musi­cal terms, and the Stones’ path led in a dark­er direc­tion. The bud­ding image of the band as arson­ists may have con­tributed to their tar­get­ing by the author­i­ties. After a 1967 drug bust, Lennon and McCart­ney came to their aid, then sang (uncred­it­ed) back­ing vocals for the Stones track “We Love You,” a song writ­ten to the band’s ded­i­cat­ed fans and to The Bea­t­les. Pur­port­ed­ly, Allen Gins­berg sat in on the ses­sions. “They looked like lit­tle angels,“ he lat­er wrote, “like Bot­ti­cel­li Graces singing togeth­er for the first time.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch the Rolling Stones Write “Sym­pa­thy for the Dev­il”: A High­light in Godard’s ’68 Film One Plus One

Mick Jag­ger Tells the Sto­ry Behind ‘Gimme Shel­ter’ and Mer­ry Clayton’s Haunt­ing Back­ground Vocals

Mick Jag­ger Defends the Rights of the Indi­vid­ual After His Leg­endary 1967 Drug Bust

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness

Watch Kids’ Priceless Reactions to Hearing the Timeless Music of The Beatles

Yes­ter­day, John McMil­lian, assis­tant pro­fes­sor of his­to­ry at Geor­gia State Uni­ver­si­ty, appeared on KQED’s Forum in San Fran­cis­co (lis­ten here) to talk about his new book Bea­t­les vs. Stones. It offers a new look at how the two British bands co-exist­ed, often helped one anoth­er, and strate­gi­cal­ly defined them­selves against each oth­er. The Bea­t­les were every­man’s band. Whole­some, clean-cut, wit­ty, the Fab Four appealed to the young and the old, the rich and the poor. The Stones, try­ing to make a name for them­selves in the wake of Beat­le­ma­nia, posi­tioned them­selves as the anti-Bea­t­les. As the jour­nal­ist Tom Wolfe once wrote, “The Bea­t­les want to hold your hand, but the Stones want to burn down your town.”

50 years lat­er, The Bea­t­les still have a near­ly uni­ver­sal appeal. The Boomers and their now mid­dle-aged chil­dren haven’t let dust gath­er on The Bea­t­les’ discog­ra­phy. And, if you plunk the grand­chil­dren in front of old Bea­t­les’ videos, they’ll love what they see. Just watch above.

Don’t miss any­thing from Open Cul­ture. Sign up for our Dai­ly Email or RSS Feed. And we’ll send qual­i­ty cul­ture your way, every day.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Bea­t­les: Unplugged Col­lects Acoustic Demos of White Album Songs (1968)

Flash­mob Per­forms The Bea­t­les’ ‘Here Comes the Sun’ in Madrid Unem­ploy­ment Office

The Bea­t­les Per­form in a Spoof of Shakespeare’s A Mid­sum­mer Night’s Dream, 1964

A Short Film on the Famous Cross­walk From the Bea­t­les’ Abbey Road Album Cov­er

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1976 Film Blank Generation Documents CBGB Scene with Patti Smith, The Ramones, Talking Heads, Blondie & More

Fans of brat­ty New York punk-turned-seri­ous writer Richard Hell or schlocky Ger­man hor­ror direc­tor Ulli Lom­mel or—why not—both, will like­ly know of Lommel’s 1980 Blank Gen­er­a­tion, a film unre­mark­able except for its cast­ing of Hell and his excel­lent Voidoids as fea­ture play­ers. (Their debut 1977 album and sin­gle are also called Blank Gen­er­a­tion.) The movie, as a review­er puts it, “seems as if each mem­ber of the pro­duc­tion was under the impres­sion they were work­ing on a dif­fer­ent film than the rest of their col­lab­o­ra­tors…. You can’t help but think that some­thing more watch­able could be pro­duced out of the raw footage with a good edi­tor.”

One might approach an ear­li­er film, also called Blank Gen­er­a­tion—the raw 1976 doc­u­men­tary about the bud­ding New York punk scene above—with sim­i­lar expec­ta­tions of coher­ent pro­duc­tion and nar­ra­tive clar­i­ty. But this would be mis­tak­en. The first Blank Gen­er­a­tion is a film that rewards no expec­ta­tions, except per­haps expect­ing to be con­stant­ly dis­ori­ent­ed. But that would seem to me a giv­en for a gen­uine doc­u­ment of what Lydia Lunch chris­tened “No Wave,” the delib­er­ate­ly taste­less 70s hybrid of punk, rock, new wave, noise, free jazz, and jar­ring com­bi­na­tion of ama­teur and pro­fes­sion­al exper­i­men­ta­tion that came to define the sound of down­town for decades to come.

Shot and direct­ed by fre­quent Lunch and Pat­ti Smith col­lab­o­ra­tor Ivan Kral and pio­neer­ing indie film­mak­er Amos Poe, the doc­u­men­tary fea­tures Smith, The Ramones, Talk­ing Heads, Blondie, Tele­vi­sion, The Heart­break­ers, Wayne/Jayne Coun­ty, and pret­ty much every­one else on the CBGB’s scene at the time. The Austin Film Soci­ety sums it up well. Kral and Poe’s Blank Gen­er­a­tion

exem­pli­fied a punk­ish atti­tude toward film struc­ture with hand­held zooms, angled com­po­si­tions, flood­light light­ing, extreme close-ups, ellip­ti­cal edit­ing, flash pans, and a gen­er­al in-your-face and “up-yours” stance. Sound and image pur­pose­ly do not synch. In many cas­es music and image were record­ed on sep­a­rate nights—more eco­nom­i­cal because of the high cost of raw film stock with sound, but also an aes­thet­ic nod to Jean-Luc Godard who had slashed the umbil­i­cal cord unit­ing sound and image. Out of the French New Wave came the New York No Wave.

The influ­ence is evi­dent, though it’s not par­tic­u­lar­ly use­ful con­text. Real­ly, all you need to know is con­tained with­in the frame: in the lilt­ing rasp of Pat­ti Smith’s “Glo­ria,” in close-up shots of Joey Ramone’s crotch and filthy sneak­ers, in the youth­ful David Byrne’s jan­g­ly acoustic gui­tar and the sleazy lounge-punk of Television’s trib­ute to Iggy Pop, “Lit­tle John­ny Jew­el.” Of course lat­er No Wave stal­warts like Teenage Jesus & The Jerks, Swans, Son­ic Youth, John Zorn, DNA, and Mars don’t appear—but some get their due else­where. And while the Hell/Lommel film might be worth a watch for curios­i­ty’s sake, the first Blank Gen­er­a­tion is a tru­ly incred­i­ble his­tor­i­cal doc­u­ment that deserves repeat­ed view­ing.

It’ll get added to our col­lec­tion of 600 Free Movies Online.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

CBGB’s: The Roots of Punk Lets You Watch Vin­tage Footage from the Hey­day of NYC’s Great Music Scene

Deb­bie Har­ry Turns 68 Today. Watch Blondie Play CBGB in the Mid-70s in Two Vin­tage Clips

The Ramones in Their Hey­day, Filmed “Live at CBGB,” 1977

The Talk­ing Heads Play CBGB, the New York Club that Shaped Their Sound (1975)

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness

Orson Welles Records Two Songs with the 1980s Heavy-Metal Band Manowar

Heavy met­al music enjoyed the plea­sures of excess in the 1980s, an era when, if you believe cer­tain biog­ra­phers, writer-actor-auteur Orson Welles did the very same. Though some describe the life of the man who made Cit­i­zen Kane as hav­ing by then fall­en into a final peri­od of great deca­dence, he still man­aged to leave his mark on a num­ber of unusu­al projects. Many of my gen­er­a­tion fond­ly remem­ber his per­for­mance as the man-made plan­et Uni­cron, eater of worlds, in 1986’s Trans­form­ers: The Movie, but those slight­ly old­er may have first encoun­tered Welles’ late work on Bat­tle Hymns, the debut album by sword-and-sor­cery-mind­ed met­al (tech­ni­cal­ly, “epic met­al”) band Manowar, for whose track “Dark Avenger,” below, he pro­vid­ed suit­ably epic nar­ra­tion: “And they placed in his hands a sword made for him called Vengeance, forged in brim­stone and tem­pered by the woe­ful tears of the Unavenged.” Who but Welles (or maybe Christo­pher Lee) could sell a line like that?

Five years lat­er, Manowar would return to the Welles well for their fifth album Fight­ing the World, whose track “Defend­er,” below, fea­tures a posthu­mous appear­ance orig­i­nal­ly record­ed as a demo dur­ing the Bat­tle Hymns ses­sions. Fight­ing the World, inci­den­tal­ly, appeared as the first ever dig­i­tal­ly record­ed and mixed heavy met­al album, an achieve­ment unshy­ly declared on the band’s web site.

There you’ll also learn that Manowar not only includ­ed fan­ta­sy imagery in both their lyrics and on their cov­ers before their col­leagues did, but that they also designed and built their own speak­er cab­i­nets and gui­tars first, record­ed songs in 16 lan­guages first, and col­lab­o­rat­ed with “Ger­many’s best­selling fan­ta­sy author, Wolf­gang Hohlbein” first. They also declare them­selves “the loud­est band in the world (a record they have bro­ken on three sep­a­rate occa­sions),” but give a place of even high­er hon­or on the list to their dis­tinc­tion as “the only band ever to record with Orson Welles” — epic met­al, met­al, or oth­er­wise.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Free­dom Riv­er: A Para­ble Nar­rat­ed by Orson Welles

Four­teen-Year-Old Girl’s Blis­ter­ing Heavy Met­al Per­for­mance of Vival­di

A Blue­grass Ver­sion of Metal­li­ca’s Heavy Met­al Hit, “Enter Sand­man”

The Physics of Mosh Pits at Heavy Met­al Con­certs (Explained by Cor­nell Grad Stu­dents)

Orson Welles Reads Coleridge’s “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner” in a 1977 Exper­i­men­tal Film

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture and writes essays on cities, Asia, film, lit­er­a­ture, and aes­thet­ics. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on his brand new Face­book page.

The Clash Mauls a Teddy Bear and Plays Two Songs on The Tom Snyder Show (1981)

The Clash’s San­din­ista!, their fourth and penul­ti­mate stu­dio album (let’s not talk about Cut the Crap) inspired crit­i­cal rhap­sodies and rose to the top of lists every­where in 1981. When I encoun­tered it almost ten years lat­er as a young fan, I didn’t give it much of a chance, except for a song with the same name as my belea­guered hometown’s NBA team. In hind­sight, it was my loss, but it’s also true that near­ly every gen­er­a­tion of Clash fans, includ­ing the very first, has put their fin­ger on the band’s moment of either “sell­ing out” or sharply declin­ing. Maybe for me it was what a Rolling Stone review called San­din­ista!’s “main­stream moves” and “stu­dio sophis­ti­ca­tion.” Maybe it was the “whiff of grandeur” of the triple album. I think it also had to do with what Tom Sny­der, in his 1981 inter­view with the band above, says of them in his intro­duc­tion: they pre­ferred to be iden­ti­fied “not so much as a Rock and Roll group but as a ‘News-giv­ing group.’”

It was hard­ly news when I heard it, and I didn’t much care for top­i­cal songs any­way. But I’ve always admired Joe Strummer’s sin­cer­i­ty and sense of polit­i­cal urgency. I don’t know how seri­ous­ly Strum­mer takes Snyder’s “News-giv­ing” open, but he rolls with it, and the band turns on the charm offen­sive, alter­nate­ly cud­dling and abus­ing a ted­dy bear (against Snyder’s protes­ta­tions), pro­fess­ing their sin­cere loy­al­ty to their fans, and cov­er­ing the host with mer­chan­dise. It’s a fun eight and half min­utes. Then they do two songs, “The Mag­nif­i­cent Sev­en” (above), from San­din­ista!, and “This is Radio Clash” (below), which doesn’t appear on any of their stu­dio albums. Behind Mick Jones’ wall of amps, pio­neer­ing graf­fi­ti artist Futu­ra 2000 spray-paints some uniden­ti­fi­able words, and beneath the whole affair is what Dan­ger­ous Minds calls “an under­cur­rent of con­trolled may­hem.” This kind of TV just doesn’t hap­pen any­more.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch Audio Ammu­ni­tion: Google’s New Doc­u­men­tary Series on The Clash and Their Five Clas­sic Albums

Rare Live Footage Doc­u­ments The Clash From Their Raw Debut to the Career-Defin­ing Lon­don Call­ing

Mick Jones Plays Three Clas­sics by The Clash at the Pub­lic Library

The Clash: West­way to the World (The 2002 Gram­my Win­ning Film)

The Clash Live in Tokyo, 1982: Watch the Com­plete Con­cert

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness

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