"A Day In The Life" presents two different perspectives on escapism and its shortcomings. John Lennon and Paul McCartney share stories of their daily experiences; they represent two narrators speaking on different emotional lives. The song's title encourages the listener to assume that these stories represent a typical day for each of them. The events and tone of these experiences differ greatly but portray a unified theme. Each depicts a need for and subsequent attempt at fleeing reality. The final realization that their respective choices have not brought satisfaction to either of them connects the disparate stories. Lennon and McCartney composed the song together, interweaving ideas they each developed separately. The narrative structure, narrative itself, and process all mirror each other to reflect that Lennon and McCartney live two very different lives. Recording began in January 1967 and wrapped in February with the recording of the 40-piece orchestra, which George Martin and Paul McCartney conducted.
The song talks to itself. Despite having both Lennon's and McCartney's voices present, it sounds nothing like a conversation. But it certainly exchanges ideas like one. Lennon's ideas embody extremity. His verses ask big questions and his tantalizing refrain answers them all. Lennon asks about life, death, insignificance, and loss. He asks how one can survive under the burden of reality, how one can go on knowing about the world's atrocities. He approaches life head-on, voluntarily reading the news, and refusing to look away when others do. Lennon's simple observations loom heavier when paired together: "He blew his mind out in a car...Nobody was really sure if he was from the House of Lords." When he presents this to the listener, he asks too much of them. The answer comes from his own voice, the only option. Immediately before the tagline, he transitions to a higher octave and his voice takes on a dreamy quality. "I'd love to turn you on," he summons. This quality greatly contrasts the plain and succinct character of his vocals prior. He sings the tagline in the same manner, so the listener knows who has come up with the solution. He presents this solution not to himself, but to the listener now afflicted with his own condition. And the solution is simple: drugs. Turn on, listener, and forget about the world. The musical shift before the refrain indicates the shift in mindset. As Lennon's voice goes up, the piano picks up speed, and both lead into the delivery of the tagline and the orchestral mania that follows. Each member of the orchestra plays as coherently or incoherently as they please, just scaling up from their lowest to highest note. The resulting sound serves as an audio representation of the climaxes and disorientation of an acid trip: Lennon's escape of choice.
McCartney responds to Lennon's intensity with a story that seems mundane. Rather than living and coping via synthetic mental escape, McCartney opts to avoid life whenever he can from the start. He doesn't face the news, or the war, he doesn't even face the day until the very last moment. The alarm clock sound effect that starts his bridge reinforces the idea that follows: "Woke up, fell out of bed." He avoids reality so that he won't have to escape. The bridge conveys irony as the subtext of his avoidance contrasts the musical background of peppy drum beats and humorous piano playing. McCartney, at first, seems much happier and lighter than Lennon. When life won't leave him alone and he too resorts to escapist tactics, he doesn't present it with the drama that Lennon does. McCartney says that he "went into a dream." The music does not change as his mindset changes, but a secondary audio representation of avoidant reverie follows the declaration of the dream: ambiguous, hazy vocalizing. From a production standpoint, these simple vocalizations, compared to Lennon's orchestral climax, reflect the intensity of the experience. As a practice, tuning out deviates less from regular life than turning on. Lennon's escape demands a sound that no listener has ever heard before. McCartney's vocalizations carry intentional familiarity. These production details create remarkable contrast that the lyrics themselves only hint at.
Escapism fails. Lennon returns to the news, and even trivial news delivers him back to drugs. He fails to escape reality and his destructive behavior cycle. The familiarity of McCartney's tactic leaves no room to question its ineffectiveness; we all know. A final orchestral climax conveys even more chaos than the first. The orchestra plays frantically, panicky. The sound winds and grows until a greater force wraps the orchestra, and it all neatly comes to a stop. A single piano chord follows and hangs in the air. Producing the chord to last longer than naturally possible allows it to take on an unignorable heaviness. Portions of the song impress the listener as relatively upbeat. The Beatles infused humor into the music and the lyrics. But no humor can be found in the final chord, not when it first strikes and not moments later when it still lingers. Only the pall remains; the failure of two attempts at escapism, the failure of all attempts. It weighs on the listener like a warning.
Despite its length, this chord does not conclude the track. Moments later, the song's actual ending comes with a silly record skip sound. Extending the track to include this ending delivers it from the sin of taking itself too seriously. Avoiding reality cannot bring satisfaction. Lennon and McCartney know this well enough to create an intelligent song about it, to layer in wit and depth and irony, to create and compare stories about it. They know it well enough to alter that hanging note accordingly. However, they also love the effects of drugs. "It's a drug song," Lennon and McCartney famously agreed with a knowing look. The entire product of Sergeant Pepper displays the myriad effects of drugs. To conclude this particular song and this particular album with a somber realization on its own would betray the very heart of The Beatles.
McCartney and Lennon offer highly nuanced perspectives on escapism in various forms. The final message reflects its failings, but the journey to that conclusion indulges in complexity. Listeners welcome it all, not only for its sonic excellence but for its unique position. It relies on imagery, masters humor and drama without one trumping the other, and it all takes place in the context of a finale. The grandness lies in the subtleties. The song serves as a fine example of Lennon and McCartney's work together: the challenging, enticing result of putting their voices in conversation.
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