The first stage would be hearing the single on the radio. Something unidentifiable would hit your ears and force you to take notice; Dionne Warwick’s voice, Phil Spector’s kitchen sink production, George Martin’s strings, a Tony Hatch chorus.
In England you would hear these songs on the radio, by and large, via only two routes. The pirate radio ships rolling about on the North Sea, or in the evenings, the drifting, ‘say hello and wave goodbye’ signal from Radio Luxembourg. There was an added shiver of expectation, a frisson of additional excitement, in hearing this new music through such unreliable sources.
Nostalgia is a curious friend. We recall summer days and warm cosy relationships and seem to have a common filter system that removes the memory of the dark clouds, the frustrations and the sadness of break-ups.
No group wears stronger rose-tinted spectacles than those perched on the nose of the obsessive lover of pop music; in particular those of us who retain enough brain cells to remember the 1960s, and the unique pleasure in returning home having bought a 7” vinyl single.
The riffling through the cardboard dividers on the shelf in the record store; sharing, briefly, time spent in the company of the mini-skirted, unattainable shop assistant as she re-touched her lipstick for the tenth time that morning (yes, it probably was, in reality, a grumpy bearded bloke but remember we have the magical spectacles in place).
The transaction: exchanging 7s/6d for the untouched copy of the single from the shelves behind the counter, and the singular pleasure of walking home with the purchase safely held in the paper bag; proudly on display if the single was bought from “Staines Records & Tapes”, but less so if the bag carried the logo of “Rediffusion” or “WH Smith and Son.”
There are several chapters to be written about the wonderful designs and artwork of the seven inch single in the 1960s; the tactile joy of removing the record from the sleeve, handling it carefully, with the tips of the fingers gracefully caressing the edge. As we’re wearing the magical spectacles of history, we’ll leave for another day, the frisson of disappointment if, at this stage, the buyer noticed that the little hole in the middle of the record appeared to be off centre, for experience had taught us that this was an inevitable precursor to the sound of Diana Ross or John or Paul appearing to sing whilst undertaking a particularly gruelling ride on a rollercoaster. Other hurdles to overcome were warping (singer sounded as if about to vomit), a faulty pressing of the vinyl (singer would leap, mid verse, to the final chorus), or a scratch (singer would be accompanied by an unwanted click track).
Assuming the piece of vinyl was in reasonably good shape, there was a moment, a brief snapshot of time, as the single was placed on the player and the needle clattered on to the lead-in, where a tangible rush of endorphins would be felt that could never be bettered by any artificial chemical. Whether listening through the plastic tinniness of a portable record player, or the grandness of the family stereogram, you owned the Beach Boys, or The Ronettes, or The Searchers. For two minutes and fifty eight seconds.
Then you’d play it again; then again; then again.
After this would come the journey of discovery, a small adventure that had the potential to double the pleasure; an excursion that is denied to the twenty-first century downloader.
The ‘B side’ has no place in 2010. The hungry click culture of i-Tunes means you find what you want, and consume it without any physical contact with the product. In the most unlikely event that you come across an unheard tune from your favourite artist, you can preview it from a hundred, maybe a thousand, different sources. The unknown is all too readily known in seconds.
There was a time, a different world, where that single, after its tenth play, would be flipped over. On the other side, the ‘B side’, would be an unknown song. Often artists regarded this as a chore and simply threw on a tune that was rejected as a ‘proper song’ on the basis that no-one would bother too much. It was, after all, a ‘B side’ with its inferred secondary status.
The smarter artist, or perhaps more likely their manager, discovered that despite the lower rank of the ‘B side’, royalties from the song writing and thus publishing were shared equally with those of the ‘A side’, and so it became far more attractive to have your song placed on the flip. All too often this led to a further dip in standards because the quality of the song had no bearing on the size of the royalty cheque.
Juggling the record and feeling their first steps into this adventure, the single flipper could be dipping into a tombola of horror, or entering a pop Narnia.
It’s ever harder to imagine in today’s culture of instantaneity, but consider the whoosh of revelation when, after playing “I Get Around” ten times, turning it over and finding the masterpiece “Don’t Worry Baby” waiting for you. Two minutes and forty two seconds of genius tucked away, sitting patiently and not expecting an audience.
“Be Bop A Lula” was the first song that Paul heard John Lennon sing. That would never have happened if John hadn’t turned over from the ‘A Side’, “Woman Love”.
... and that leads us neatly to the greatest ‘B side’ ever. Tucked away on ‘the other side’ of Paperback Writer, and recorded during the Revolver sessions, ‘Rain’ really does hit you with a sonic blast, because it was one of the first tracks recorded at Abbey Road using a new balancing system that allowed music to recorded and reproduced louder than ever before.
Featuring an early example of psychedelic-styled phasing and a touch of backward vocals, Rain was written by John Lennon after he experienced a monsoon-like downpour in Melbourne, and is an antidote to the traditional British moans about wet weather.
As a bonus, the film made to accompany the song was shot at Chiswick House (where you can still walk in the footsteps of The Beatles) in West London. Highlights include John squinting short-sightedly at the camera, and Paul looking a bit self-conscious about his broken front tooth.
This week I have:
Been snowbound in Berkshire for three days. I’m enjoying it but then I haven’t run out of coffee yet.
Listened to a lot of ‘B Sides’. The Beatles are the most consistent flip-siders by a huge margin.
Watched our World Cup bid presentation – it made me a bit tearful. It seemed to have the opposite effect on the FIFA delegates.
Pre-snow, had lunch in central London, where, at the next table, two Guardian journalists spoke rather loudly and candidly about that morning’s editorial meeting.
Terence Dackombe, December 2010
