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  After taking a weekend break, George and the Beatles were back in the studio for an afternoon session on Monday, April 11. As roadie Neil Aspinall later observed, a pattern began to emerge during this period in terms of the Beatles’ working relationship with Martin, as well as in regard to their studio practices. “At this time I was in the studio with them when they were making records,” said Aspinall, “and the pattern changed over the years.” Moreover, “it was getting so that sessions would start at about two or three in the afternoon and go on until they finished, whatever the time was. At the beginning of the session, if there was a new song, whoever had written it would play the chords to George Martin on either guitar or piano, or they’d all be around a piano, playing it, learning the chords. If they were halfway through a song, they’d go straight in and do harmonies, or double-tracking, or a guitar solo or whatever. Sometimes, because it was all on four-track, they would have to mix down on to one track to give a bit of space to do the rest of it.” During the April 11 session, the balance of their work would be devoted to a new Harrison composition that went under the working title of “Granny Smith” in honor, presumably, of the apple variety, a recurring image that would figure later, and very prominently, in the band’s evolving story. For the quiet Beatle, “Granny Smith” would mark his first full-throated, Indian-flavored track, having previously adorned “Norwegian Wood (This Bird Has Flown)” and “Mark I” with Eastern-oriented instrumentation. With Harrison having brought his sitar along for the day’s proceedings, Martin recorded a basic track with the Beatles’ guitarist singing and providing his own acoustic guitar accompaniment, while McCartney delivered harmony vocals to accentuate the verses. As the session progressed, the recording became imminently more complex. For track two, Paul provided a fuzz bass part, depressing the volume pedal in order to heighten the notes during each refrain. Track three found Martin and the Beatles deploying studio musicians for only the third time in their career—not counting Martin himself, of course. Having been recruited by way of London’s Asian Music Circle, Anil Bhagwat joined the flute and string players on “You’ve Got to Hide Your Love Away” and “Yesterday,” respectively, as the only non-Beatles to grace the band’s recordings. As Bhagwat later recalled, “The session came out of the blue. A chap called [Ayana] Angadi called me and asked if I was free that evening to work with George. I didn’t know who he meant—he didn’t say it was Harrison. It was only when a Rolls-Royce came to pick me up that I realized I’d be playing on a Beatles session. When I arrived at Abbey Road, there were girls everywhere with Thermos flasks, cakes, sandwiches, waiting for the Beatles to come out.”14

  With Bhagwat poised above the tabla, a pair of small, bongo-like drums, Martin recorded track three, which featured Harrison’s first pass at the song’s distinctive sitar melody. As Bhagwat sat down in Studio 2, Harrison was ready to impart instructions to the session player. “Once the session began, George [Harrison] told me what he wanted, and I tuned the tabla with him,” Bhagwat later recalled. “He suggested I play something in the Ravi Shankar style, 16-beats, though he agreed that I should improvise. Indian music is all improvisation.” For track three, Martin recorded Harrison’s sitar and Bhagwat’s tabla, later overdubbing a tamboura part from Harrison onto the same track. For Martin and Emerick, recording instruments like the sitar and tamboura was fraught with sonic challenges given the instruments’ frequency variations, which were known to wreak havoc for Western studio personnel—particularly during the mixing and mastering processes. If instruments such as the sitar and tamboura were not recorded properly and carefully, the sound fluctuations could cause the consumer’s stylus to jump during those phonograph record days. Emerick found that the key to recording such instruments involved using nonstandard microphones and, in violation of EMI Studio policy, placing the mics mere inches away from the instrument. Determined to impress the Beatles and capture the best possible sound as their new balance engineer, Geoff didn’t mind skirting the rules in unusual situations—and besides, in his own words, “the sitar was about as nonstandard as you could get.”15

  As work on “Granny Smith” progressed even further, Harrison overdubbed a second sitar part onto track four, along with another fuzz guitar piece. By this point, Harrison’s layered fuzz guitar parts had provided the song with a searing downbeat in contrast with the tune’s liberating lyrics about a utopian world of uninhibited singing and lovemaking—and not necessarily in that order. Harrison concluded his work on “Granny Smith” with the recording of a thirty-four-second motto, consisting of swarmandal (an Indian instrument in the same vein as a table harp that emits a zither-like sound) and sitar, to introduce the song. At this point, the sixth take of the recording was marked as “best,” and a mono acetate was prepared for Harrison to take home for further consideration. Before the day’s work was over, Martin recorded another guitar overdub by Harrison for the still unfinished “Got to Get You into My Life.” As for Bhagwat, the “Granny Smith” session had proven to be a much-treasured experience. “I was very lucky, they put my name on the record sleeve. I’m really proud of that, they were the greatest ever and my name is on the sleeve. It was one of the most exciting times of my life.”16

  As with Rubber Soul’s “Think for Yourself,” “Granny Smith” found Harrison continuing to exert his songwriterly presence, which was no easy feat among a group that included the likes of Lennon and McCartney. For the whole of the band’s recording career so far, Harrison had languished as the “junior” member of their creative team, a pecking order that was reinforced not only by Lennon and McCartney but by Martin, too. The elder statesman for the Beatles’ brain trust had no problem making distinctions among the bandmates and their talents, determined as he invariably was to get the most out of their collective talents. No, the producer definitely wasn’t above playing favorites. The stakes of authorship were significant in a highly competitive group like the Beatles, and to Martin’s mind, Harrison was lagging behind the world-famous songwriting duo. But the stakes were high for Martin, too—and especially as he was working to get AIR off the ground. Yet he could already sense a shift, however slight, in Harrison’s songwriting fortunes—and particularly as the bandmates slaved away on their new long-player. Martin later wrote that Harrison had “been awfully poor up to then. Some of the stuff he’d written was very boring. The impression is sometimes given that we put him down. I don’t think we ever did that, but possibly we didn’t encourage him enough. He’d write, but we wouldn’t say, ‘What’ve you got then, George?’ We’d say, ‘Oh, you’ve got some more, have you?’ I must say that looking back, it was a bit hard on him. It was always slightly condescending. But it was natural, because the others were so talented.” Martin was equally quick to admit that he, too, fell well short of being on an equal playing field with the likes of Lennon and McCartney, later remarking that “there is no doubt in my mind that the main talent of that whole era came from Paul and John. George, Ringo, and myself were subsidiary talents. We were not five equal people artistically: two were very strong, and the other three were also-rans.”17

  It was a political calculus that would shift ever more precipitously over the coming years—at times, so profoundly that even Martin and Emerick would find themselves caught up in the high-stakes world of the Beatles’ creative matrix.

  4

  A Rube Goldberg Approach to Recording

  * * *

  WHEN IT CAME TIME to select the tune that would be the A-side for the Beatles’ next single, Martin relegated the opportunity—quite naturally at this point, given the band’s internal political calculus—to Lennon and McCartney. At this juncture, the Beatles were in the midst of riding a winning streak in their homeland, with eleven consecutive number-one singles—the latest being the double A-sided “Day Tripper” backed with “We Can Work It Out,” which was released in December 1965 and had rung in 1966 atop the UK charts. The pressure was definitely on to maintain the Beatles’ commercial dominion in their home country, a
nd the group’s principal songwriters took the competition very seriously indeed, with John and Paul regularly vying to see who could land the next A-side. As Geoff Emerick later remarked, “In those days, singles were probably even more important than albums. After all, the singles were the records that the radio DJs spun endlessly, thus fueling album sales. They were also far more affordable than albums—a major factor for the typical teenage Beatles fan of the era, who had limited cash to spend.” George had a long-standing policy about Beatles singles, demanding that the songs be brand new and not mere reissues of album tracks. “It was laudable insofar as it gave the buying public tremendous value for their money, but it also added greatly to the pressure the group was under,” Geoff later wrote. “Not only did they have to periodically write and record musically cohesive collections of their songs, but at the same time they also had to keep cranking out commercial hits.”1

  By the time the Beatles had recorded the first handful of songs for their new album, George received a memo from EMI about the deadline for the band’s next single, which the record conglomerate intended for general release by the end of May. John and Paul wasted little time getting down to business. As Geoff later remarked, “Whoever wrote the stronger song—with George Martin as referee—would win the prize: the prestigious A-side. The losing song would either be relegated to the B-side or be included on an album, with another, lesser song purloined to occupy the nether regions of the single.” This time, it was Paul who acted first. “Gather ’round, lads, and have a listen to our next single,” he announced during a session in Studio 3 on Wednesday, April 13, the same day that George and the bandmates were creating additional overdubs for “Granny Smith.” Paul’s new composition, “Paperback Writer,” had everything that George was looking for—a catchy pop hook, clever lyrics, and a great melody to boot. Geoff remembered John giving his partner a sidelong glance as Paul unveiled his latest confection, but as events would later show, John wasn’t down for the count just yet.2

  For “Paperback Writer,” McCartney wanted a heavy, thumping bass sound, the very same pulsating tones that the Beatles associated with contemporary Motown hits of the day. In the studio, Paul had been playing the Rickenbacker 4001S bass that he debuted on Rubber Soul’s “Drive My Car.” With a fluid fret board, the Rickenbacker afforded him greater versatility, not to mention superior tonal definition, in contrast with his signature Höfner violin bass, which he had since relegated to concert appearances given the instrument’s light weight. But now he wanted to take the Rickenbacker a step further and simulate the beefier “American” bass sound that he heard on tracks by the likes of Donald “Duck” Dunn and James Jamerson in the United States and, more recently, the Who’s John Entwistle, who had broken off a spirited bass solo in the vein of American rhythm and blues in “My Generation,” which had notched a top-five UK hit only a few months earlier. Always buoyed by any glint of competition, Paul was determined to make his mark as a bassist, and “Paperback Writer” proved to be the perfect vehicle for showcasing his skills. The song also presented yet another opportunity for George and Geoff to expand the capabilities of EMI Studios, which had already seen two major technological innovations in the span of a few short weeks. As the selfsame producer who had greeted the Beatles’ innovative plans to shift their sound in new and dramatic ways with the guarded reply of “very interesting,” George was now working steadfastly to advance, if not enlarge, the capacity of the recording studio in order to meet their creative expectations, and Geoff had proven himself to be the perfect engineer to make these shifts possible.

  While “Mark I” was still a work in progress and wouldn’t come to fruition for a few more weeks yet—when it would finally lose its working title, to boot—“Paperback Writer” exploded into being in fewer than forty-eight hours. As George led the bandmates through a rehearsal of Paul’s new song, which had a crackling electric guitar intro, Geoff turned to the issue of addressing the bass player’s aspirations for a punchier, more “American” sound from his Rickenbacker. As Lennon and McCartney taught Harrison the opening chords to “Paperback Writer,” “inspiration struck” Emerick, who was ready to meet McCartney’s demands and then some:

  It occurred to me that since microphones are in fact simply loudspeakers wired in reverse (in technical terms, both are transducers that convert sound waves to electrical signals, and vice versa), so why not try using a loudspeaker as a microphone? Logically, it seemed that whatever can push bass signal out can also take it in—and that a large loudspeaker should be able to respond to low frequencies better than a small microphone. The more I thought about it, the more it made sense. I broached my plan, gingerly, to Phil McDonald. His response was somewhat predictable: “You’re daft; you’ve completely gone around the twist.” Ignoring him, I took a walk down the hall and talked it over with Ken Townsend, our maintenance engineer. He thought my idea had some merit. “Sounds plausible,” he said. “Let’s wire a speaker up that way and try it.” Over the next few hours, while the boys rehearsed with George Martin, Ken and I conducted a few experiments. To my delight, the idea of using a speaker as a microphone seemed to work pretty well. Even though it didn’t deliver a lot of signal and was kind of muffled, I was able to achieve a good bass sound by placing it up against the grille of a bass amplifier, speaker to speaker, and then routing the signal through a complicated setup of compressors and filters—including one huge experimental unit that I secretly borrowed from the office of Mr. Cook, the manager of the maintenance department.

  At this juncture, it is worth noting that George and Geoff were more than shirking EMI Studios’ recording policies, which were “archaic” and overly regimented in their eyes. But Geoff persisted, buoyed by George’s interest in addressing the Beatles’ needs at all costs, as well as the Beatles’ vaunted place in the EMI pecking order.3

  But even still, Paul was surprised when Geoff placed a large, bulky loudspeaker directly in front of his bass amplifier rather than the usual studio microphone. As for George, he paid little mind, having become used to Geoff’s self-described “Rube Goldberg approach to recording.” As the rehearsal continued unabated, Geoff returned to the control room, where he carefully raised the faders that carried the bass signal. Much of the bass work that Paul performed on the song was played on the lower strings, and to Geoff’s satisfaction the notes didn’t become muddy or less coherent with the new setup. Rather, to Geoff’s ears the tones from Paul’s instrument had become rounded out, and the sound that the microphone emitted was “absolutely huge—so much so that I became somewhat concerned that it might actually make the needle jump out of the groove when it was finally cut to vinyl.” It was a legitimate fear—and one that would haunt George’s work with the Beatles for the next several years. But in the short run, Geoff’s solution had done the trick. Paul was delighted by the result. His bass performance assumed its own place in the song’s musical palette alongside the lead guitar part that he had fashioned on his Epiphone Casino. Indeed, in many ways, Paul’s bass sound had assumed the proportions of a lead instrument capable of driving the melody, as opposed to settling behind it in the rhythm section along with Ringo’s drum cadence.4

  As it happened, during the rehearsal “Paperback Writer” had taken yet another turn. At this early date in George and the bandmates’ sessions circa April 1966, sudden left turns were the norm rather than being an anomaly. In this instance, Paul suggested a new introduction for the song, which was originally prefaced with a burst of lead guitar. As Paul later recalled, “I had the idea to do the harmonies, and we arranged that in the studio.” For George, this meant that he could indulge one of his favorite aspects of working with the Beatles, conducting them as they prepared the trademark harmonies that had adorned such earlier songs as “This Boy” and “If I Fell.” Martin later referred to Lennon, McCartney, and Harrison’s complex harmonies at the beginning of “Paperback Writer” as “contrapuntal statements from the backing voices—no one had really done that before.” He
would also cite their inspiration, moreover, as being the Beach Boys’ latest single, “Sloop John B,” which was just beginning to make a splash on the British airwaves at the time. As the lead single from the Beach Boys’ new album Pet Sounds, “Sloop John B” showcased the American band’s characteristic soaring, “stacked” harmonies, as well as a prominent bass track—both of which managed to catch McCartney’s ear. After the Beach Boys’ Brian Wilson first heard Rubber Soul, he vowed to produce “the greatest rock album ever. That’s how blown out I was over the Beatles.” With his ambitions aroused, Wilson said, “I just made up my mind to do something that expressed what was in my heart and soul. I didn’t care about sales. I just cared about the artistic merit of it.” In a few short weeks, John and Paul would have their first opportunity to hear the Beach Boys album in its entirety, and the Beatles’ own long-player would take yet more unexpected turns.5