Paul McCartney, on his own, wrote cute love songs. No one doubts his greatness—he fathered Sgt. Pepper—but after the Beatles broke up, Paul’s records seemed underweight and underripe. Although backed by hand-picked rock musicians, his forte as a songwriter and recording artist wasn’t rock but pop, or adult contemporary, the music of extended adolescence, played on heartstrings.
It was John Lennon who’d provided the group with gravitas, politics—fangs. “I Am the Walrus”—who’d give that up? He wanted his music to change and alter minds. As a solo artist, John wrote political songs (“Imagine”) and sometimes cynical lyrics: “All I can tell you is, it’s all show biz,” “Instant karma’s gonna get you.” He needed leavening. Without Paul, John became a bore.
George was a conjurer. Post-Beatles he wrote and sang about being the “dark horse,” and covered some oldies, yet his guitar is what we all wait for when we listen. George crossed borders, taking lessons from other greats and cultures. With his guitar and some spot-on songs he hallowed and spiritualized the Beatles. Nobody much wants to listen to a George without his guitar.
Ringo is faultlessly dependable. Underrated because drummers always are, he was the group’s true rocker: He provided the throb. Brand-new Beatles songs were fragile entities until Ringo’s drumming gave them legs. He was never provided with a score or a drum track; he invented his own, is as much a composer as the rest. You can listen to all the Beatles records and never once hear Ringo make a mistake.
Paul was the heart.
John was the conscience.
George had vision.
Ringo had precision.
Go back to the piece you are working on, or a work you quit on, and see if it has all these elements.