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The Beatles’ Revelatory White Album Demos: A Complete Guide

We delve deep into the 1968 home recordings that planted the seeds for the band’s classic self-titled double LP

Beatles' White Album demos take 3

Ringo, John, Paul and George made the White Album made in five months of grueling all-nighters

Michael Ochs Archives/Getty Images

“We are going in with clear heads and hoping for the best,” an optimistic Paul McCartney announced as sessions for the Beatles‘ new album lurched forward in the late spring of 1968. “We had hoped this time to do a lot of rehearsing before we reached the studios … but, as it happens, all we got was one day.” But the day in question, sometime toward the end of May, would be a remarkable one. Meeting at George Harrison’s psychedelic-painted bungalow, Kinfauns, in the leafy London suburb of Esher, the Fabs culled through a bumper crop of new songs, penned primarily during their time studying Transcendental Meditation at the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi’s secluded retreat in Rishikesh, India, earlier that year. By nightfall, 27 acoustic demos had been committed to tape, forming the bones of what would forever be known as the White Album. It was an unprecedented endeavor for the band – never before had they run through a complete body of work in advance, recording what was effectively an “unplugged” version of their next LP.

Considering their blitzkrieg of activity since returning to the West six weeks earlier, it’s surprising the group managed to find even a single day to work on new music. Any trace of inner serenity cultivated in India had been obliterated as they busied themselves with the launch of their multimedia company, Apple. McCartney and John Lennon jetted to New York in mid-May, where they struggled to present the “Western Communism” ideals of their new organization to a skeptical world press. The chaotic publicity trip was far from a triumph, but it did give McCartney a chance to get to know a young photographer named Linda Eastman a little better, thus dooming his engagement to actress Jane Asher. Lennon’s personal life was at a similar crossroads; soon after arriving home to England, he consummated a long-simmering romance with Yoko Ono, ending his own marriage in the process.

Personal and business stresses aside, the Beatles were also saddled with intense artistic pressure to top their prior album (Magical Mystery Tour soundtrack EP not withstanding), the groundbreaking Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. Lennon dealt with the expectations by doing his best to ignore them. “I wasn’t interested in following up Sgt. Pepper,” he later said. “What I was going for was to forget Sgt. Pepper. That was Sgt. Pepper and that’s all right, but it’s over! So let’s get back to basic music and let’s not try and string everything together, and pretend it’s a show.” To move forward they had to look back. Sgt. Pepper had been an elaborate studio production, assembled in a piecemeal fashion with endless overdubs. For their new album, they wanted to play together as a band once again, and to do so required practice.

Why they picked Harrison’s home as the site of their rehearsals is up for debate. The vibes at Chez Lennon were understandably tense as divorce loomed, and McCartney’s Regency townhouse in central London was perhaps too close to the hustle and bustle of city life – to say nothing of EMI’s Abbey Road Studios, a five-minute walk away – to inspire calm. So they hunkered down at Kinfauns with some acoustic guitars, light percussive instruments and an Ampex 4-track tape machine and just let it roll. The result was a joyous, stripped-down, warts-and-all peek inside the band’s creative process. Of the 27 songs known to exist from the day, 19 would wind up on the White Album, two would be held over for Abbey Road and six were never issued by the group as an active unit. Lennon contributed a whopping 15 compositions to the proceedings, McCartney seven and Harrison five.

When all was said and done, Harrison made a mono mix of the tape and a presented a copy to each of his bandmates as a reference for the upcoming sessions. Exactly what happened to the recordings afterwards remains a mystery. Although a handful of these takes saw the light of day nearly three decades later on the Beatles’ Anthology 3 collection, the vast majority remain officially – and tragically – unreleased. Thankfully, audio has leaked in recent years, becoming available to all on YouTube. As a document, the Esher demo tape is both entertaining and historically invaluable, providing a fascinating work-in-progress glimpse of the band’s most varied collection.

Continue on to hear for yourself, and learn more about each of the songs recorded on that day 50 years ago when the Beatles made music just for themselves.


Harrison first began writing “Piggies” around the same time he penned the equally salty “Taxman” in 1966. The biting satire, which took aim at the bourgeoisie, was misinterpreted by some in the U.S., where “Piggies” was understood as derogatory slang for cops. Ironically, the phrase that helped drive Charles Manson to kill was conceived as a good-natured joke by Harrison’s mother, Louise. “I was stuck for one line in the middle until my mother came up with the lyric, ‘What they need is a damn good whacking,’ which is a nice simple way of saying they need a good hiding,” Harrison wrote in I, Me Mine. “It needed to rhyme with ‘backing,’ ‘lacking,’ and had absolutely nothing to do with American policemen or Californian shagnasties!”

Perhaps in recognition of the song’s obvious allusion to George Orwell’s barnyard allegory Animal Farm, Harrison included a nod to the author’s other masterpiece, 1984, in an early draft: “Everywhere there’s lots of piggies/playing piggy pranks/You can see them on their trotters/at their piggy banks/Paying piggy thanks/to thee Pig Brother.” The memorable verse had vanished by the time Harrison demoed “Piggies” with his bandmates, but a reference to the pigs clutching their forks and knives “to cut their pork chops” (rather than “eat their bacon”) remains. Fed up with being a junior partner in the Beatles, the so-called Quiet One clearly polished his new compositions to perfection before debuting them for Lennon and McCartney.

The structure is essentially all in place even in this primitive stage – including a solo filled in by Harrison with tuneful whistling. On record, the sour lyrics are made even bitter with Martin’s starchy parlor room arrangement, but the playful acoustic guitar embroidery on the demo, skillfully overdubbed by Harrison, makes it much more palatable.


Arguably Lennon’s most nakedly vulnerable moment with the Beatles, “Julia” takes its name from his late mother, whose death in a traffic accident when he was 17 inflicted a wound on his psyche that never fully healed. The song is at once an exorcism of this past trauma and also a welcome to a new female force, “ocean child” Yoko Ono, whose name literally means “child of the sea” in Japanese. “The song was actually a combination of imagery of Yoko and my mother blended into one, you see,” he told Playboy in 1980. In many ways, the same would occur in his real life: throughout their marriage he would retain the archaic Northern habit of referring to his wife playfully as “Mother.” Other lyrical imagery was drawn from poet Kahlil Gibran’s 1926 piece “Sand and Foam,” which contained a version of Lennon’s memorable opener, “Half of what I say is meaningless; but I say it so that the other half may reach you.”

Musically, “Julia” showcases Lennon’s most advanced “Travis-picking” guitar work to date, learned from singer Donovan while both were students at the Maharishi’s ashram. “I used to play acoustic guitar all the time,” Donovan remembered in 2012. “In fact, Ringo used to say, ‘Don, you never stop playing guitar.’ In that nonstop playing, after we meditated, after we ate our health food, after we chased the monkeys off the table, we would play, and as I picked, one day John said, ‘How do you do that?'”

Lennon pretty much had it down by the time he shared “Julia” with his mates at Harrison’s house. He’d been practicing in his music room at Kenwood (a handful of demos exist of these trial runs), but the Kinfauns tape reveals a few moments when he struggles with the tricky fingering. Singing in a higher key than on the official version, he murmurs like a child in a trance, much as he did when he returned to the loss two years later on the stark solo track “My Mummy’s Dead.” The bridge contains an instrumental extension in this early take, but it’s possible he simply repeated the figure after hitting some clams the first time around. Nearly a full minute longer than the song found on the White Album, the Esher demo ends with a brief whistling solo. Whether it was intended to undercut the intensity of his emotion is unclear, but it remains a goofy sendoff from a man just beginning to mend. Completed in the studio that October, the song would be the only solo recording he ever made with the Beatles.


Of all the songs recorded for the White Album, “Blackbird” dates back the furthest. The seeds were sewn in the late Fifties when a 16-year-old McCartney learned the introduction of Bach’s “Bourree in E Minor” on guitar in a somewhat misguided effort to impress girls. “You often did things just as party pieces, things to show off, literally, at a party,” McCartney recalled during a seminar at Rollins College in 2014. “You know, ‘Hey girls …’ You would do that. Unfortunately, none of them bothered.” The budding musician’s rudimentary classical guitar skills rendered the rest of the movement prohibitively difficult, so he improvised an abbreviated ending – one he never forgot. “Part of its structure is a particular harmonic thing between the melody and the bass line which intrigued me,” he explained to Barry Miles.

McCartney expanded on the guitar figure while visiting his Scottish farm shortly after returning from India in the spring of 1968. “I developed the melody on guitar based on the Bach piece and took it somewhere else, took it to another level, then I just fitted words to it,” he told Miles. “I had in mind a black woman, rather than a bird. Those were the days of the civil rights movement, which all of us cared passionately about, so this was really a song from me to a black woman, experiencing these problems in the States.”

The words were fully in place by the time he debuted the song at Kinfauns, but the musical structure needed work. The opening line is played only once, rather than repeated, and the wordless mid-song guitar wind-down present on the White Album is absent. But given the stripped down nature of the final recorded version, the demo sounds fairly similar. The demo is primarily a solo venture, but McCartney’s double-tracked vocals and acoustic guitar picking get some help from Lennon, who enthusiastically contributes bird sounds.

“Rocky Raccoon”

Once characterized by McCartney as “a Mack Sennett movie set to music,” the Beatles’ “talking-blues” pastiche came together in a sing-along setting in Rishikesh. “I was sitting on the roof in India with a guitar,” he relayed in 1968. “John and I were sitting ’round playing guitar, and we were with Donovan. And we were just sitting around enjoying ourselves, and I started playing the chords of ‘Rocky Raccoon,’ you know, just messing around. … It was ‘Rocky Sassoon,’ and we just started making up the words. They came very quickly. And eventually I changed it from Sassoon to Raccoon, because it sounded more like a cowboy.” It’s been theorized that the love-triangle plot line of this “little one-act play” was inspired at least in part by Robert W. Service’s 1907 poem “The Shooting of Dan McGrew,” which includes a gunfight, a man named Dan, and a woman of questionable identity “that’s known as Lou.

The Esher demo lacks the rambling spoken introduction, which seemed to vary with each performance to match McCartney’s mood (earlier studio takes have Rocky hailing from “a little town in Minnesota”), and also the verses detailing the drunken doctor – which potentially stemmed from a real incident in December 1965 when a tipsy off-duty physician performed an emergency stitch job on McCartney’s lip following a moped wipeout. Anticipating the honky-tonk tack piano that would be added latter, Harrison echoes each line of the verse with country-ish guitar flourishes that were sadly edited out of the final recording. Without any percussive elements beyond tambourines to signal the rhythm changeups, the early version of “Rocky Raccoon” can border on the monotonous at times, but the rockabilly fake-out on the ending definitely warrants special attention.

“Back in the U.S.S.R.”

A tongue-in-cheek sendup of Chuck Berry’s barnstorming “Back in the U.S.A.,” the future White Album opener took root in McCartney’s mind after he heard the slogan for Prime Minster Harold Wilson’s pro-English industry campaign “I’m Backing Britain” in early 1968. Initially taking the title “I’m Backing the U.K.,” it morphed into the espionage-tinged “I’m Backing the U.S.S.R.,” before taking its final form. “It’s a typical American thing to say when they’re away: ‘I miss my doughnuts and my Howard Johnson’s and my launderettes and I miss the convenience of the Hyatt Hilton and it’s just so much better back home and the TV’s got more channels,'” McCartney later explained. “So I thought, ‘Great, I’ll do a spoof on that. This’ll be someone who hasn’t got a lot but they’ll still be every bit as proud as an American would be.'” It’s likely the homesickness wasn’t purely fiction – McCartney composed the song in the midst of the Indian TM course, which he departed prematurely, nearly a month early. Prior to leaving, he played the song for a fellow pupil, Mike Love of the Beach Boys, who encouraged him to include a sort of Russian-style “California Girls” section on the bridge. McCartney went along with the idea, incorporating some Beach Boys–esque harmonies to boot.

The White Album’s raucous kickoff is electrifying even as an acoustic vamp on the Esher tape. Slower than the final version and performed in a lower key, the early version chugs along in a bluesy groove as a chorus of McCartney vocal overdubs attack the lyrics with panache, overemphasizing the “R” sounds on “U.S.S.R.” in nasal American tones. The flight from Miami Beach is just “awful” at this stage (rather than “dreadful”) but overall the words are largely the same. The “Show me around your snow-peaked mountains …” stanza has yet to be written, so McCartney repeats the first and second verses before leading into a sung guitar break. The full-throated doo-wop on the bridges makes this quite possibly the most fun of all the Kinfauns demos.

“Honey Pie”

The White Album–era song perhaps least influenced by the India excursion, McCartney’s paean to Busby Berkeley’s silver-screen dance numbers owes a debt to the music-hall standards so beloved by his father, Jim. He’d previously mined the genre for songs like “Good Day Sunshine,” “Your Mother Should Know” and, most notably, “When I’m Sixty-Four,” but “Honey Pie” finds him committing to the jazz age like never before. “I would quite like to have been a 1920’s writer, ’cause I like that thing,” he admitted in a 1968 interview with Radio Luxembourg. “You know, up in a top hat and tails and sort of coming on to ’em. So this kind of number, I like that. … This is just me doing it, pretending I’m living in 1925.”

Without the extended introduction that mimics a scratchy 78 platter, the Esher demo dives right into what became the second verse on the final recording. McCartney plays guitar while also overdubbing vocals, tambourine on the offbeat, and percussive slaps to the back of his acoustic six-string, and his bandmates join in with encouraging whoops in the background. The bridge has yet to be completed, leaving McCartney free to toss off some “dee da dee” syllables before launching into an exuberant scat solo.

“Mother Nature’s Son”

The tranquil setting of the Maharishi’s ashram by the banks of the Ganges led the band to pen several pastoral odes. As Lennon was moved to write “Child of Nature,” McCartney countered with “Mother Nature’s Son.” Initially inspired by a lecture given by the master, the lyrical theme fully materialized after he had returned to England, when a visit to his father’s home in Liverpool unleashed memories of happy days exploring the natural world as a boy. “I was always able to take my bike and in five minutes I’d be in quite deep countryside. This is where my love of the country came from,” he says in Many Years From Now. “I remember the Dam Wood, which had millions of rhododendron bushes. … This is what I was writing about in ‘Mother Nature’s Son,’ it was basically a heart-felt song about my child-of-nature leanings.” Remembrances of these idyllic summers, coupled with his recent experiences in India, coalesced into a deeply affecting Earth Mother lullaby.

As with most of McCartney’s acoustic tracks on the White Album, the demo doesn’t stray too far from the final product, with the lyrics and much of the final structure of the song already solidified. Ironically, the vocals on the Esher tape are actually more complex than the official version, with McCartney overdubbing an exquisite harmony line on the wordless outro. This countermelody would be approximated, though not quite bettered, with a guitar on the official release.

“Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da”

Given McCartney’s predilection for upbeat melodies, it’s only natural that the sunny island sounds of early reggae and ska made a major impact on him in 1968. He decided to try his hand at the style, noodling on a bouncy tune during the Beatles’ meditation studies in Rishikesh. “I remember walking down a little jungle path with my guitar to get to the village from the camp,” he recalled during an interview for the Anthology. “I was playing ‘Desmond has a barrow in the market place …'” It’s unknown whether the Desmond name checked was in fact reggae pioneer Desmond Dekker, but the song’s title has a definitive inspiration – the Nigerian conga player known as Jimmy Scott, famous in the London R&B scene for backing Georgie Fame and visiting stars like Stevie Wonder. “He was a great friend of mine,” McCartney remembered in 1986. “In the Sixties we used to meet in a lot of clubs and spent many a happy hour chatting until closing time. He had a great positive attitude to life.” One of Scott’s favorite phrases was “Ob-la-di, ob-la-da,” a Yoruba expression meaning, “Life goes on.” McCartney borrowed the saying, writing Scott a check for his troubles.

The demo of “Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da” cut at Kinfauns retains more reggae flavor than the pub piano sing-along that made it to record. Despite the acoustic instrumentation, McCartney brings the percussive elements to the fore, beating the back of his guitar like a makeshift bongo, rattling a tambourine, and vocalizing a hearty “chick-a-boom, chick-a-boom” on the bridge. He throws himself headlong into the lyrics, laying on a thick Jamaican accent that had faded by the final recording. The “If you want some fun, sing ‘Ob-la-di bla-da'” outro has yet to be added to the mix, and the song tumbles to a halt with descending nonsense syllables. For all of McCartney’s vitality, the double-tracked vocals occasionally veer badly out of sync, creating brief moments of “Revolution 9″–like aural chaos, but overall the early sketch is sincerely charming.


Originally referred to by its working title of “Jubilee,” this pretty yet slight number was the only one of McCartney’s Kinfauns songs that didn’t make the cut for the White Album – or indeed any Beatles album. It would surface on his self-titled solo debut in 1970 as both a lush instrumental (called “Singalong Junk”) and an acoustic folk ditty.

It’s clear from the demo tape that McCartney had more work to do on “Junk,” as many lines consist of la-la’d and ooh’d dummy syllables or repeated verses. The few lyrics that do exist simply list the detritus of a bric-a-brac shop. Amusingly, McCartney can be heard laughing as he harmonizes with himself via vocal overdub. Perhaps he knew, even at this early stage, that it would be some time before “Junk” saw the light of day.

“Dear Prudence”

It’s well known in Beatle lore that the Prudence addressed in the song is Mia Farrow’s sister, the band’s classmate at the Maharishi’s retreat. The young woman threw herself into meditation with a pathological intensity that frightened others at the course. “Being on that course was more important to me than anything in the world,” she later told Steve Turner. “I was very focused on getting in as much meditation as possible, so that I could gain enough experience to teach it myself. I knew that I must have stuck out because I would always rush straight back to my room after lectures and meals so that I could meditate.” Lennon and Harrison were enlisted to help coax her out of seclusion, and together they strummed a tune intended to soothe.

Lennon can be heard giving his own (less-than-charitable) depiction of Prudence in a brief narration at the end of the Kinfauns demo. “No one was to know that sooner or later she was to go completely berserk in the care of Maharishi Mahesh Yogi,” he says, barely stifling a chuckle. “All the people around were very worried about the girl, because she was going insane. So we sang to her.” The monologue is certainly the highlight of this early version of “Dear Prudence,” fingerpicked and double-tracked seemingly by Lennon alone. In the third verse he sings of a “sleeping child” rather than the more familiar “little child.” He also sneaks in an additional “look around, round” bridge just before the final verse, which shifts into a hard-strummed double time – complete with lyrical flub, resulting in a hilarious “Whoops!”

“Sexy Sadie”

Lennon and Harrison’s stay in Rishikesh came to an abrupt end in mid-April after a rumor swept through the ashram that the Maharishi had made sexual advances towards a blonde American woman who, depending on who’s telling the story, may or may not have been Mia Farrow. The nasty tale has never been verified, and it seems likely that it was concocted by the infamous “Magic” Alex Madras, who felt the spiritual master challenged his own influence on the Fabs. In later years the band expressed serious doubts that the Maharishi ever acted in an untoward manner (Harrison dismissed the rumor as “total bullshit … just ask Mia Farrow!” in the Anthology, while McCartney expressed his own belief that the story “was completely untrue” in Many Years From Now), but at time Lennon was particularly scandalized by the episode. He led the exodus of their remaining party, leaving a baffled Maharishi desperately asking why. “Well, if you’re so cosmic, you’ll know why,” Lennon hissed back.

While waiting for his ride out of the camp, a disillusioned Lennon mulled over a song in his head. The words and melody bore traces of one of his favorite Motown tunes, 1961’s “I’ve Been Good to You” by the Miracles, which opens with the lines, “Look what you’ve done, you’ve made a fool out of someone.” Consciously or not, Lennon adapted the lyrics to address his former guru: “Maharishi, what have you done/You’ve made a fool of everyone.” “I wrote it when we had our bags packed and were leaving. It was the last piece I wrote before I left India,” he remembered in 1980.I was just using the situation to write a song, rather calculatingly but also to express what I felt. I was leaving the Maharishi with a bad taste. You know, it seems that my partings are always not as nice as I’d like them to be …” However, Harrison, the Beatle most taken with Eastern thought, blanched at Lennon’s dressing down of the yogi. “I said, ‘You can’t say that, it’s ridiculous,'” he recalled in the Anthology. “I came up with the title of ‘Sexy Sadie’ and John changed ‘Maharishi’ to ‘Sexy Sadie.'” (Lennon did vent his spleen in private several weeks later, taping a venomous and widely discursive blues ballad, dubbed “The Maharishi Song” by bootleggers, in the music room of his Surrey estate.)

Any libelous references had been successfully excised from “Sexy Sadie” by the time the track was demoed at Kinfauns several weeks later. Lennon took the lead on double-tracked guitar and vocals, backed by McCartney and possibly Starr, who added a soft percussive bed of maracas and bongos. Lyrically complete, the song is structurally a bit of a dirge at this early stage, meandering between verse and chorus without any dynamic shifts before finally petering out. A lengthy instrumental coda was added when the group tackled the song in the studio that July, during which time Lennon shared a verse that revealed the fury that forged the song: “You little twat/Who the fuck do you think you are?/Who the fuck do you think you are?/Oh, you cunt.”

“Happiness Is a Warm Gun”

For “Happiness,” which ranked among the Beatles’ favorite tracks on the White Album, Lennon pieced several district sections of music into a fractured mini-suite, weaved together into what he described as a “history of rock ‘n’ roll” in miniature. “That’s one of my best,” he told Rolling Stone in 1970 – high praise from a man who often dismissed most of his Beatles work as “crap” in various permutations. “I love it. I think it’s a beautiful song. I like all the different things that are happening in it. … It seemed to run through all the different kinds of rock music.” An early draft of the lyrics indicate Lennon divided the piece into three movements: “Dirty Old Man,” “The Junkie” and “The Gunman (Satire of ’50s R&R).” Only the second of these, the middle section on the final version, was given a public airing as the tapes rolled at Kinfauns.

Halting guitar chords open the track before Lennon’s weary voice can be heard uttering the despondent words: “I need a fix ‘cos I’m going down, back to the bits that I left uptown.” The song is barely a sketch at this stage, which likely explains why he left it until late in the session. It’s so new that he doesn’t quite know how it goes, and the first pass quickly breaks down. “Oh, shit,” he says sheepishly. “Wrong chord!” He has better luck the second time through, vaulting through the “Mother Superior” section with renewed vigor. Given the inspiration behind the line, it’s not surprising why. “Mother Superior was Yoko,” he explained in 1970. “She was rabbiting on in the car one day, and I said, ‘mother superior jumped the gun again,’ because she’s always one jump ahead. So that was Yoko really.” From there he fingerpicks a hauntingly beautiful guitar figure, sadly removed from the final piece, over which he gently sings the cute aural pun “Yoko … Ono – Oh, no. Yoko … Ono – Oh, yes.”

The song would eventually come together at Abbey Road that September, with Lennon repurposing the Fifties doo-wop coda he’d originally employed on early versions of “I’m So Tired.” Donovan’s fingerpicking guitar technique came in handy again, providing Lennon with an introductory piece (the so-called “Dirty Old Man” element) featuring lyrics culled from a long night of acid-tripping with Derek Taylor, former roadie (and future Apple chief) Neil Aspinall and Lennon’s childhood friend, Pete Shotton. The memorable title came from some reading material left in the Abbey Road control room by the band’s loyal producer. “‘Happiness Is a Warm Gun’ was from the cover of a gun magazine that George Martin had in the studio when we were making the double album,” Lennon recalled. “On this cover it had a picture of a gun that had just been shot and was smoking. I thought, ‘Wow! Incredible’ … I thought it was a fantastic, insane thing to say.”

“Mean Mr. Mustard”

Writing fictional “story songs” never came as naturally to Lennon as it did to McCartney – “He makes ’em up like a novelist,” he once marveled – but “Mean Mr. Mustard” proves that he had great aptitude for such character studies. Of course, it always helped if the characters were the nefarious type. “I’d read somewhere in the paper about this mean guy who was hiding five-pound notes, not up his nose but somewhere else, and so I wrote about him,” he explained in 1980. Lennon ultimately melded the song with “Polythene Pam” when it was released in its final state on Abbey Road in 1969. Few realized the pair of songs were demoed a full year earlier at Kinfauns until they were issued on the Anthology 3 double disc in 1996.

This early take of “Mean Mr. Mustard” features John by himself on double-tracked acoustic guitar and vocals. The lyrics are largely identical to the official version, save for the fact that his sister is not named “Pam” but “Shirley,” reputedly a reference to accordionist Shirley Evans, who Lennon produced the previous year. It also features a brief bridge consisting of Lennon repeating the phrase “Mean Mr. Mustard, he’s such a dirty, dirty,” three times before devolving into mutterings of gobbledygook. This would evolve, somewhat inevitably, into “Mean Mr. Mustard, he’s such a dirty bastard,” when the song was dusted off for the Get Back sessions in January 1969, but the section was scrapped by the time it was included on Abbey Road’s Side Two medley later that year.

“Polythene Pam”

Appropriately, the next song on the Esher demo tape ultimately followed “Mean Mr. Mustard” on Abbey Road. Lennon has alternately offered two tales behind “Polythene Pam,” a “half a song” he wrote in Rishikesh. The PG version is that Pam was Pat Hodgett, “a mythical Liverpool scrubber dressed up in her jackboots and kilt” known to the band in the early Sixties. A hardcore Beatles fanatic and Cavern club regular, she also had the unusual habit of eating polythene – a plastic substance – earning her the nickname “Polythene Pat” from Lennon. “I’d tie it in knots and then eat it,” she explained in A Hard Day’s Write. “Sometimes I even used to burn it and then eat it when it got cold. Then I had a friend who got a job in a polythene bag factory, which was wonderful because it meant I had a constant supply.”

But it was a kink-filled night on the British isle of Guernsey that left a stronger impression on Lennon’s subconscious. Following a gig there on August 8th, 1963, Lennon met up with Royston Ellis, a local Beat poet known to the Beatles since their earliest Liverpool days. Described by Lennon as “England’s answer to Allen Ginsberg,” Ellis invited Lennon back to his attic apartment to meet his girlfriend. “He said she dressed up in polythene, which she did,” Lennon recalled in 1980. “She didn’t wear jackboots and kilts, I just sort of elaborated. Perverted sex in a polythene bag. Just looking for something to write about.” Ellis later clarified, albeit slightly, exactly what went down in the bed they shared that night. “We’d read all these things about leather and we didn’t have any leather but I had my oilskins and we had some polythene bags from somewhere. We all dressed up in them and wore them in bed,” he told Steve Turner. “I don’t think anything very exciting happened and we all wondered what the fun was in being ‘kinky.'”

These two memories apparently fused into one in Lennon’s mind, leading to the tune he demoed at Kinfauns. It’s truly just a snippet, less than 90 seconds long and clearly in his “needs work” pile. As he does on the final version, he spits out each word with his finest Scouse accent, a tribute to the track’s Northern muse. The lyrics consist of a pair of verses, the ones heard on record, endlessly looped. At this stage Lennon extols Pam’s virtues with the line “It’s a little absurd but she’s a nice class of bird,” rather than comparing her to the bombshells found in the pages of the down-market English newspaper News of the World. Though the running time is brief, it’s clear that just two verses aren’t going to cut it for a full song. As the track disintegrates, Lennon can be heard saying, “It’s too long, that!” The version on Abbey Road is markedly shorter, even with the addition of a 30-second guitar solo.

“Glass Onion”

A freeform collage of words and dreamy images juxtaposed as Lennon’s fervent imagination saw fit, “Glass Onion” served as his sequel to the previous year’s “I Am the Walrus.” The titular phrase, a nautical term for a large bottle kept shipboard and also, supposedly, a glass-topped coffin, appealed to Lennon for the seemingly contradictory notions of transparency and multiple layers. (He later suggested it as a potential name for a new Apple signing called the Iveys. They went with Badfinger instead.) A lyrical tour de force, “Glass Onion” teased overzealous fans with references to past songs including “Walrus,” “Strawberry Fields Forever,” “Fixing a Hole,” “Lady Madonna,” and “The Fool on the Hill,” becoming the band’s meta-masterwork.

The wordy track was far from finalized by the time the band met up at Harrison’s home, but Lennon fully commits to his acoustic version of the song, confidently singing double-tracked gibberish syllables that would have made his literary hero Lewis Carroll proud. The lyrics for the first verse are repeated on the second, revealing a minor alternation to the more familiar version: “I told you about Strawberry Fields, well here’s a place you know just as real.” The “Oh yeah” bridge has yet to be added, so instead Lennon sings his one and only verse again, this time in dramatic halftime. Lennon emits a playful “Help!” before the song dissolves into another spell of “Jabberwocky” nonsense, fully disintegrating prior to the two-minute mark. As it was the last song recorded that day, perhaps his patience was wearing thin, or maybe he knew the band had more than enough in reserve to begin their new album. 

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