Episode 120: “A Hard Day’s Night” by the Beatles

A History of Folk Music and 500 Songs

by Andrew Yankee.

Episode 120:

A Hard Day's Night

by the Beatles.

Today we're going to look at a song that has one of the most striking opening chords of any song ever recorded.

The title song to a film that was described on its release as The Citizen Cane of Jukebox Musicals, and which captured the Beatles at the height of their early success.

We're going to look at how Beatlemania hit America, and at how the Beatles went from being merely a very popular pop group to being a cultural phenomenon that changed the world.

And most importantly, we're going to look at how they changed how music is portrayed on screen forever.

We're going to look at A Hard Day's Night.

The 16th of January 1964 seemed at first to be the first misstep in the Beatles' career.

After their run of Christmas shows, they travelled to Paris to play the Olympia, the same venue where, a little over two years earlier, John and Paul had seen Vince Taylor play and tried unsuccessfully to blag their own way onto the stage.

This time they were topping the bill, for the first of eighteen nights in a row, or at least they were equally billed with Sylvie Vartan and Trini Lopez, with none of the promotional material actually saying who was highest billed.

But they went down something like a lead balloon, with the audience, mostly made up of VIPs there for opening night, not responding to them, and with their amps failing three times during the show.

George Harrison apparently suspected sabotage.

It was the first time in almost three years that they'd faced an unappreciative audience, and they were apparently despondent after the show.

They were despondent, at least, until they got a telegraph to the show, giving them the good news.

I Want to Hold Your Hand had jumped up 43 places on the cash box chart.

They were number one in America.

It was already planned, of course, that they would be going to the US in February to make three appearances on the Ed Sullivan Show, but now they knew they were big over there.

After that, the shows in Paris became somewhat easier for the group, and while the press for the first night was fairly awful, once they started playing to their own audiences rather than VIPs, they won the French crowds over as well as any other audience they'd had.

While they were in France, they also made what would be their only studio recordings outside London.

They'd been asked by the German Brancher VMI to record German-language versions of She Loves You and I Want to Hold Your Hand, as at the time it was felt that they didn't have much chance of selling in Germany with English language recordings.

While in the studio, they also recorded a song of Paul's, which became their next single, the first to only feature a single voice.

But while Paul took the lead on that single, John was dominating in the writing for the duo, who were also working on writing their next album while they were in Paris.

That album would be their first to consist entirely of original songs, and the only one to consist entirely of Lennon McCartney songs.

But of its thirteen tracks, ten would be primarily or solely John's work, and only three written mainly by Paul.

But before they could record it, they had a trip to the US to make.

The Beatles' first trip to the US has had a huge amount of coverage over the years, but it involved a surprisingly small amount of actual work for them.

They made three appearances on the Ed Sullivan Show, plus two live performances, one in Washington, filmed for a closed-circuit cinema broadcast, along with shows by The Beach Boys and Leslie Gore, and one at Carnegie Hall.

But it was those Ed Sullivan Show performances that became legendary.

Sullivan's show was always the most popular thing on American TV, and always featured a variety of acts.

February 9th, 1964, was no exception, as he featured, among others, the comedian and impressionist Frank Gorshin, who is now best known for his later role as the Riddler in the Batman TV series, and the cast of Lionel Bart's musical, Oliver.

smile,

everywhere I sing

Would you climb a heel of anything and wear DevO deal?

Anything and leave me all your wheel anything

The young man playing the artful Dodger there said later I watched the Beatles from the side of the stage.

I saw the girls going crazy and I said to myself this is it I want a piece of that but it would be two years before Davy Jones would become famous as one of the monkeys.

But of course, it wasn't songs from the musicals sung in fake cockney accents, or the impersonation skills of Frank Gorshin that had people tuning in that night.

And there were a lot of people tuning in.

73 million of them, the highest audience figure for any TV show in US history to that point.

And they were tuning in to see this.

Oh yeah,

I tell you something

And I think you understand

Well I

say that something

I wanna hold your hand

I wanna hold your hand

I wanna hold your hand

It is impossible to explain or even really comprehend just how big the Beatles were in America America after their Ed Sullivan appearances.

They may not even have fully realised it themselves, as they were only over there for two weeks at that point and made relatively few appearances, though they were soon booked in for a full-length tour that summer.

But almost every American rock musician who came to prominence in the ten years after those appearances has said that it was seeing the Beatles on Ed Sullivan and the reaction to them from the girls in the audience that made them want to become musicians.

Guitar-based rock and roll had basically been dead in the US since 1957, with the only real exceptions being surf bands and Dwayne Eddy.

Now, as a result of one TV show, it was back with a vengeance, and the guitar would dominate American music for a generation.

The Beatles became even bigger after their return to the UK, though.

In the first week of April, they actually had the whole top five of the Billboard charts to themselves, and seven more records in the Hot 100.

And not only that, but there were two songs about the Beatles also in the Hot One Hundred.

They also had the number one and two spots in the album charts.

The week after that, while they no longer had all five top spots, they did have two more singles in the Hot One Hundred, making fourteen in total.

The reason they had so many records in the charts was that Capital hadn't licensed their early recordings, and so they had been licensed to a couple of small labels, who were releasing everything they could from their small stockpile.

And VJ, the label that had licensed their first album, were putting out album tracks as singles in the hope of getting as much of the market as they could.

And the three companies putting out their records were soon going to be joined by a fourth.

Because in an echo of how the Beatles had only been signed to EMI because of their publishing subsidiary, United Artists Records wanted to put out Beatles records, and had realised that there was probably no provision in their contract with EMI for film soundtracks.

If their film division signed the Beatles to make a film, and they made it quickly and cheaply enough, they could get a soundtrack album out of it that would more than cover the cost of making the film, and would hopefully be pure profit for them.

EMI turned out to have other opinions about this after the contracts were signed, and United Artists ended up only getting the rights to the soundtrack album in America.

But that was the thinking, at least, when United Artists approached Brian Epstein with a proposal in the autumn of 1963 for a film to be made as early as possible in 1964, to be released before the bubble burst and this Beatle fad was over.

The Beatles had actually had multiple proposals to appear in films before, but these had all been for jukebox musicals, the kind of film we've talked about earlier, where some kids put on a benefit show to save the local youth centre, and twenty different bands mined to one or two songs each.

They didn't like that kind of film and didn't want to be in one, and so those proposals had not gone anywhere, but they became interested when they were told who UA had in mind to direct Richard Lester.

Much as George Martin had been, Richard Lester was a serendipitous choice, the one person in Britain who could have made the Beatles film on a low budget and still make it a genuinely worthwhile film.

Lester was an American former child prodigy who had gone to university when he was only 15, and had paid his way through university by playing jazz piano, which made him able to work well with musicians.

After getting his degree, he had started working in TV in the US in 1950, working his way up from being a stagehand to directing in under a year, as the TV industry was so new then that there were no experienced directors in the industry.

He moved to the UK in 1953 and started directing over here.

where again the industry was still in its infancy.

He'd directed several episodes of a low-budget detective series called Mark Sabre, and had also tried his hand at performance.

He starred in a variety show called The Dick Lester Show, which featured himself and another performer, Alan Owen.

The show was live and never recorded, so we have no idea what it was like.

But we do know that the show was cancelled after one episode, due to it being apparently miserably amateurish.

But we also know that the next day Lester received a call from Peter Sellers, who told him, Either that's the worst television programme that I have ever, ever seen, or I think you're onto something that we are aspiring to.

Lester's reply was that if there was a choice, it was definitely the latter.

Sellars was, at this time, one of the biggest stars in Britain, but was not yet the major film star he later became.

Rather, he was primarily known for his work on a radio programme, The Goon Show.

We've mentioned the Goon Show in passing before, but never really looked at it in any detail, but it was probably the single most important cultural influence in Britain in the 1950s.

It was a series of surreal half-hour comedy shows starring Harry Seacombe, Sellers, and Spike Mulligan, and written by Mulligan, often with the assistance of other writers like Eric Sykes and Larry Stevens.

Its style is impossible to summarise in words, and so it's best to give an example.

Here's a portion of 1985, their episode about life under the Big Brother Corporation, or BBC for short.

I light a hundred-foot fuse.

So

now all that remains is for me to escape.

Taxi to the airport.

Stop.

Airplane.

Drive me to America.

Stop.

Horse, drive to the desert.

Ladies and gentlemen,

observe.

I am now six thousand miles away from the dead dynamite.

Here I am safe in the middle of the desert.

The Goons were, through most of the 1950s, the most inventive and creative comedy team on the radio, and they had a huge fan base which included all four of the Beatles, with John Lennon being the biggest fan of the show.

As well as working as the goons, though, both Milligan and Sellers did other comedy work.

Most notably for our purposes, they made many comedy records, together and separately, often with production by George Martin.

It's often said that Martin produced the Goons, but he only produced one or two Goon records, but he produced a lot of work by Sellers and Milligan, like this with Sellers as the skiffle singer, Lenny Goonigan.

to collect these songs of yours, Mr.

Goonigan?

Oh, yes, every Saturday I go down Doble's Jazz Record Shop and I collect all the latest folk stuff, you know, around the world in 80 days, all this.

And

I like to have records that go round, you see?

In the jazz books, they talk about the deep south, where all this happens.

Have you been to the deep south?

Well, I've been all over, man.

You see, I've been Brighton, Portsmouth, Truro, Pinsan.

I've been all over.

I go everywhere in my travels, all over the place, especially to all over.

Now, have you have a song that's number one over here at this very moment?

Where did you discover discover that one, for example?

Well, there was an obscure folk song hidden at the top of an American hit parade, and I'm mighty famous while I cut out all the verses and have one long chorus.

Like, I've put an on star, chorus, but in on, but now, putting on one long chorus.

Or the 1962 album Bridge Over the River Why by Milligan, Sellers, Peter Cook, and Jonathan Miller, which was meant to be called Bridge Over the River Quai until the film's makers threatened to sue.

So George Martin had to go and edit out the K's from every Quai in the record.

This is the story of brave men who volunteered to act these parts for money alone.

It was 1962 in England, but still only 1943 in Japan.

Such was the great difference in teeth between these two great religions.

One day, roughly about midday, the island of Singapore fell under the auctioneer's mallet of the Japanese army.

Yes, it was most unexpected.

We gave as good as we got.

Bang, we went.

Bang.

But it was no good.

They said it first.

So Sellers and Milligan were branching out into other areas throughout the late 50s and early 60s, and Sellers wanted to do a goon show for TV, and thought that Leicester would be the perfect person to direct it.

The show couldn't be called the Goon Show, because it was being made for ITV rather than the BBC, and so they named it the Idiot Weekly Price Tuppence.

At first, Milligan didn't want to be involved, saying that his kind of comedy wouldn't translate to the TV, as images would make it too concrete, and so the first episode only involved sellers, and was written by other members of Associated London Scripts, the writers' cooperative that Milligan and Sykes worked for.

Shortly after the first episode was broadcast, Milligan called Lester and told him that he'd got most of the script for the second episode done.

He never admitted to having changed his mind, but from that point on, Milligan was the main writer and co-star of The Idiot Weekly Price Tuppence, though other writers from ALS continued to contribute, including Sykes, Terry Nation, and a young writer named John Junkin, who had to start a performing career at no notice when Sykes became ill and Junkin had to step in and play a role written for him.

The show ran for three series, all in 1956, all under different names.

The first series was The Idiot Weekly Price Tuppence.

A month after that finished, it came back for six more episodes as a show called Fred.

And then later in the year, it returned again as Son of Fred.

Only one episode survives, but from that episode, it seems a quite remarkable programme.

You've been in bandit territory for six years, isn't it?

That is quite correct, yes, John.

I have been in six years now, and of course, it's all part and parcel of the job, of course.

Jolly good, yes.

But I mean, the six years is a long time when you think of it, Terence.

I suppose it must have had some

effect on your nerves?

Well, no, not really.

I mean,

I should think it would take more than a jolly old Malayan bandit, you know, to make me nervous.

I mean, after all, I was that!

They got me!

They're here!

They're waiting for me!

They're swine!

Well, thank you, Terrence Prump.

As well as parodying other TV format, it also has characters from one sketch wander into another, sketches ending without a punchline, and at one point has characters riding into shot as if on horseback, but clapping two coconuts together to make the sound of hooves.

The Monty Python team have often said that Milligan's 1969 series Q5 did everything they were going to do a few months before them, but as it happens, it seems that Milligan was doing everything they were going to do thirteen years before them.

After their work on these three series, Lester, Milligan and Sellers had gone off to do other things.

But a couple of years later, Sellers had bought a 16mm film camera and asked Lester if he wanted to make a film with it.

Over the course of two weekends, Sellers, Milligan, and Lester, plus various performer friends of theirs, such as Norman Rossington and Leo McKern, put together an 11-minute silent comedy, the Running, Jumping, and Standing Still Film.

for which Lester was credited as co-director with Sellers, and for which Lester also wrote and performed the music and co-wrote the script, such as it was.

The Running, Jumping and Standing Still film, which only cost seventy pounds to make in total, ended up being nominated for an Academy Award, and gave Lester a valuable credit as a film director, though he spent the next couple of years mostly making commercials.

His first feature film, though, was one we've talked about briefly before.

A couple of years back we looked briefly at the film Rock, Rock, Rock, a film starring Alan Freed and featuring several musicians we've dealt with.

The writer and producer of that film, Milton Subotsky, had since moved to the UK and started up a new company, Amicus Films, which would soon become known for making horror films starring people like Peter Cushing.

But Amicus' first film was going to be one of those cheap, quick jukebox musicals, It's Trad Dad.

It's Trad Dad was written by Subotsky, or at least Subotsky is the credited writer, and is clearly intended to be exactly along the lines of Subotsky's earlier films.

When the mayor of a small town tries to ban jazz music from his town, two teenagers, played by the pop stars Craig Douglas and Helen Shapiro, decide to persuade the DJs Pete Murray, Alan Freeman, and David Jacobs to put on a concert to convince the crotchety old people that this trad jazz thing isn't as bad as it sounds.

They gather up Mr.

Akabilk and his Paramount Jazz Band, Terry Lightfoot and his New Orleans jazz band, the Dukes of Dixieland, Chris Barber, and the Temperance Seven to perform the exciting hits of the day.

As well as the trad performances, the film also features several people we've looked at previously in this series.

John Layton singing one of his Joe Meek hits, Chubby Checker performing The Lose Your Inhibitions Twist, Del Shannon singing You Never Talked About Me, and Gene Vincent, just before he went to Hamburg to appear at the Star Club with the Beatles, singing Spaceship to Mars.

to Mars and hug you and I squeeze you as we fly through the stars.

But when I think of those like yours we can spend alone, zoom through the atmosphere from zone to zone.

Well I tell you honey, like candy sunny cause you're man on mine.

Yeah, I wanna get you on a spaceship to Mars or hug you and I squeeze you as we fly through the stars.

Or when we land on that planet, tell you what I'll do, I'm gonna build a dream.

This was clearly intended to be a cheap film with no attention paid whatsoever to the quality of the film, and Richard Lester was picked to direct it as his first feature.

He later recalled that when he was given the script that Subotsky had written, it was only 18 pages long, and that seems like it is, if anything, a generous estimate based on Subotsky's script for rock, rock, rock.

Lester absolutely transformed it.

The result is a bizarre film.

It's not quite a good film.

It's still the exact same structure that Tsubotsky used for rock, rock, rock, right down to scenes of the kids watching musicians on TV as an excuse for musical numbers, and Shapiro and Douglas can't act at all.

But Lester included a lot of additional visual jokes, and I strongly suspect he rewrote the script a great deal.

There's now a cartoon-like quality to it.

Characters repeatedly argue with the omniscient narrator, and also ask the narrator for favours.

At one point, the two main characters want to get to the city from their small town, and ask the narrator to help them.

There's a sped-up noise, we see film sprockets behind the characters as the film moves behind them, and they end up in their new location.

But more than that, Lester and his cinematographer Gilbert Taylor created a whole new visual language for how to present pop music in that film.

Taylor was one of the most innovative cinematographers in the business.

He would go on to be a crucial part of the look of such visually striking films as Doctor Strange Love, Repulsion, and Star Wars, and he and Lester came up with a way of filming musicians that is now the standard for musical performances, but at the time was unlike anything seen before.

There were lots of deep-focused shots with one musician's face in the foreground while the rest of the group were visible in the background, lots of close-ups on instruments, and a lot of quick cutting.

I won't go on about this too much in what is, after all, an audio medium, but in the same way Jack Goode had revolutionised the TV presentation of rock and roll music in a way that would influence every music TV show since, so Lester and Taylor revolutionised the way musical performances were filmed and created a language in It's Trad Dad that is now the absolute standard way to show musicians on the big screen.

So much so that it's only if you watch any rock and roll film made before it that you realise how astonishingly imaginative it is because all its innovations have been so thoroughly incorporated into standard technique.

But they weren't incorporated because of It's Trad Dad, which nobody paid any attention to.

It was a cheap quickie that wasn't meant to be studied or reviewed, and was just an excuse to have Helen Shapiro sing her latest single.

Anytime or anywhere,

let's talk,

let's talk,

let's talk about love.

But this meant that Richard Lester was someone who had worked with the Beatles' very favourite comedians and understood their sense of humour, who was a musician himself and knew how to talk to musicians, who had a visually innovative way of presenting music on screen that nobody else was doing, and who could make films quickly on a shoestring budget.

He'd managed to turn the sow's ear of a script that Zubotsky had given him for its trad trad dad, into, if not a silk purse, at least a sturdy carrier bag.

He was perfect, in short, to make a British music film on the cheap, but make it just that little bit better than it needed to be.

But of course, a film requires more than just a director, and Lester had an idea who he wanted to write the script as well.

After Alan Owen had acted with Lester in The Dick Lester Show, he'd moved from acting into writing, and he had a particular interest in writing about Liverpool.

He was born in Wales, but moved to Liverpool as a small child, and Lester would later joke that Owen would be Irish, Liverpudlian, or Welsh, depending on what he thought you wanted him to be.

He'd written a TV play set in Liverpool, Last Train to Lime Street, and he was currently working with Lionel Bart on a musical based on Maggie May, the old folk song about a sex worker in Liverpool.

That musical, when it hit the stage, featured another old colleague of Lester's, John Junkin.

It wasn't a massive success, but it did lead to an EP of songs from the musical by Judy Garland, with a delightfully bizarre performance of a song that uses the Trade Union Congress as a not-so-subtle metaphor for other kinds of Congress.

only one union that's united.

Every discrete member's meeting is fun.

Do come along, or your wrongs will be righted.

There's only one union.

However, there were delays in staging Maggie Mae, and that meant that Owen was free to write the script.

Owen was a less universally acclaimed choice among the Beatles, but acceptable.

McCartney had enjoyed Last Tram to Lime Street, but Lennon thought of Owen as a professional Loverpudlian, a species of person he despised.

Owen followed the group around while they were on tour in the latter part of 1963, including the trip to Paris, and took notes about their personalities, though he later admitted that he'd had to exaggerate the differences between the group's personalities significantly, because at this time they were so close that they acted almost like a single individual.

While Owen took these notes and wrote the script though, the basic idea for the film came from a comment Lennon made to Lester.

When asked about how he'd liked Sweden after the group performed there, he made a comment which Lester has paraphrased a few different ways over the years, but amounted to: it was a plane and a room and a car and a room.

This comment was given in the script to the fictional character of Paul's grandfather.

What a green old man!

It became the structuring principle for the whole film.

Other than brief moments where they escape, the group are constantly shown as being indoors, in tight enclosed spaces, prisoners of their fame, and responding to it mostly in sarcastic one-liners.

Responses that also meant that none of the group had to learn more than a line or two per shot, with most of the dialogue being taken up by the supporting cast.

like Wilfrid Bramble, Norman Rossington, and John Junkin, who had made the opposite journey from Alan Owen and had moved into performance from script writing.

Junkin put on a fake Liverpool accent for the film, and kept it up off camera, as apparently the Beatles wanted real Liverpudlians around them, and so Junkin attempted to fool them for the duration of the shoot.

The film's title actually has two different sources.

The phrase A Hard Day's Night actually turned up in a short short story John had written, Sad Michael, which had recently been published in his first book, In His Own Right, a collection of nonsense poetry and stories inspired by the goons and Lewis Carroll.

There's no recording of Lennon reading much of the book, but he did appear on Peter Cook and Dudley Moore's TV show, not only but also,

reading one of the stories, The Wrestling Dog, with interjections from Norman Rossington.

Once upon a time, in a far-off distant land, far across the sea, miles away from anyway, over the hills as the crow barked,

thirty-nine people lived miles away from anywhere on a little island on a distant land.

When harvest time came along, all the people celebrated with a mighty feast and dancing on that.

It was Perry's.

So, Perry was the loud mur.

Job to provide.

And Perry's great pleasure, I might add.

A new and exciting.

And usually it was.

Thrill and spectacular performer.

Sometimes a dwarf was used.

This year, Perry had surpassed himself by getting a wrestling dog.

But who would fight this wondrous beast?

I wouldn't for a kick-off.

We'll get me fighting it, Dudley.

A hard day's night turned up in the story of Sad Michael, a night watchman, or Cocky Watch Tower in Lennon's phrasing.

But the phrase only came to the group's attention as a possible title when Ringo independently reinvented the phrase as a malapropism on the set of the film.

Ringo had a habit of this kind of thing, saying things slightly wrongly and coming up with a phrase that was rather more interesting than what he'd meant to say, and this wouldn't be the only song whose title he provided that way.

Lennon wrote the song the night after Ringo made his slip up, and finished it off with McCartney the next day, and later said it was inspired by Bob Dylan, though Dylan's inspiration is hard to hear.

It is, though, a slightly more sophisticated lyric than the group's previous singles.

It's still a love song, but about a more adult relationship.

The protagonist has a job, and comes home at night to his love.

It's not I Want to Hold Your Hand, but a song about the relief of getting home at the end of a hard day at work.

a thing.

And it's worth it just to hear you say

you're gonna give me everything.

So, why aren't I sure that I'm home?

Cause when I get you alone, you know I feel okay.

When I'm home,

everything seems to be right.

When I'm home.

But what really made the record special was something that they created in the studio: that chord.

The opening chord of A Hard Day's Night has been analysed in a million different ways, but it seems to have been made up of three elements.

First, there is the chord that George is playing on his 12-string, and which John is also playing on 6-string acoustic.

That chord is an F at 9,

an F chord with a G on top, denotes F A C G.

Paul, meanwhile, is playing a D in the bass,

and George Martin on piano is playing D, G, D, G, and C.

Put them all together, and you have this.

Or, of course, this.

It's been a hard day's night,

and I've been working like a dog.

It's been a hard day's night.

I should

The song, of course, went to number one, and the film also became one of the most successful films of the year, both commercially and critically.

It was nominated for two Academy Awards, for the screenplay and for George Martin's score.

and received almost universal praise from critics.

For example, when The Village Voice did its end-of-year round-up of the best films of 1964, it came in second, after Doctor Strangelove, a film whose cinematographer, Gilbert Taylor, had done the same job on A Hard Day's Night, and which starred George Martin and Richard Lester's old colleague, Peter Sellers.

Sellers would himself later record his own version of A Hard Day's Night, produced by Martin.

It has been

a hard day's night.

And I have been working like a dog.

It's been a hard day's night.

I should be sleeping like a log.

But when I get home to you,

I find the things that you do will make me feel

alright.

A Hard Day's Night was a pivotal moment in film, and is now generally regarded as one of the finest examples of British cinema taking cues from the French new wave, and to have invented a whole new visual language for music in the cinema and on TV.

It's also a film that inspired thousands of other people to form rock bands.

It defined the band as gang mentality for millions, and despite being an attempt to show how oppressive the Beatles' life already felt, it made many, many people envy that life and want it for themselves.

Over the next month or two, we'll see how that worked out for a whole host of musicians.

And when we next return to the Beatles themselves, we'll see how they coped with a level of fame that had never been experienced by anyone else in the world, and how you follow up that level of success in both music and film.

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