At its best, the box set manages to shift preconceived notions about this most canonical of albums, drawing attention to the differences and revealing the paths not taken. An instrumental version of “Day Tripper” – a song not included in any of the original releases of Rubber core but recorded at the same time and released as a single the same day – whose instrumental break, led by George’s volume pedal swells and Ringo’s ecstatic cymbal work, sounds to modern ears like post-rock reaching for the sky. An interview excerpt, taken from Kevin Howlett’s expansive and conversational notes, in which John seems to forget that Rubber core came after Help! and not before, which complicates our perception of the album as the group’s unequivocal leap forward. An entirely unreleased song called “Little Girl” is presented here as a shaky acoustic Lennon demo – rejected by Rubber corewe imagine, because the album already contained “Girl” and “Run for your life if you can, little girl…”, or because its adolescent sentimentality didn’t fit with the sophisticated new vibe the band was cultivating. (Though it does have a sticky melody and interesting chord choices.) Taken as a whole, it brings together Rubber core descend from the pantheon and return to human scale: not the first inevitable masterpiece of a group predestined for greatness, but just a real one, Really good record, made by a group of young men who worked hard, under enormous pressure from the industry and the public, and determined to realize their own vision.
The album’s greatest pleasures lie in the album’s two original versions, reminding us that Rubber core has always been evolving, shaped by the whims of inspiration and commerce, not a single totemic thing. In reality, there are more than two. The UK and US each feature a stereo and mono mix, which any major nerd will tell you contains differences just as significant as the track listing adjustments. In stereo, each of the little flourishes of the arrangements is presented as a singular and precious object in itself. McCartney’s fuzzy bassline on “Think for Yourself” is huge and unruly without ever getting in the way of the three-part vocal harmonies. On “You Won’t See Me,” Ringo’s idiosyncratic drum beat of cascading hi-hats and toms seems to operate in a space of its own, at the kinetic center of the action but separated from the rest by a layer of perfect stillness. Fan wisdom favors the mono version, which is perhaps closer to what the band envisioned as they urged various studio engineers to push their meters into the red. The songs retain their baroque complexity, but are performed with jukebox-like force rather than careful control. Those “You Won’t See Me” hi-hats, so crisp and polished in stereo, now share the same cramped frequencies as the sibilance of McCartney’s voice, making it sound like everyone is crowded together in a loud, bustling room. The guitars scratch and tangle, the vocal layers bleed as one. Even “Nowhere Man” comes out of the speakers.
Gn entert
