#seriously can someone find that banana poem it's driving me crazy

[monkberrymoonsdelight]

A Monkberry Moon Delight lyrical analysis because it is the greatest song of the 20th century

Monkberry Moon Delight is a song from Paul McCartney's 1971 album Ram. The song is generally considered to be surrealist 'nonsense' lyrics a la Lennon's late Beatles work like 'I am the Walrus' and 'Glass Onion'. But if we know anything about Paul (and Lennon-McCartney in general), he tends to put deeper emotions into his songs, often with out meaning to and without his direct knowledge:

"I don't write anything consciously, Sometime when I'm pissed off with John over Apple business a line might creep in." - Interview with Disc And Music Echo (Nov. 20, 1971)

"Songwriting is like psychiatry; you sit down and dredge up something that's inside, bring it out front." - Interview with Robert Palmer for the New York Times (April 25, 1982)

" But in a song, that's where you can [share your innermost thoughts]. That's the place to put them. You can start to reveal truths and feelings." - Interview with John Wilson fork BBC 4's (May 24, 2016)

And my favorite because it's y'know...in a song: "And when I'm gone, I leave my message in my song" - Beware My Love (Wings at the Speed of Sound, 1976)

All that being said, in my opinion, Monkberry Moon Delight is a projection of Paul's feelings of anxiety about his post-Beatles public/critical reception and his reaction to John Lennon's antagonism post-divorce. Specifically, he details his writing of Too Many People as a response to John's antagonism and the making of Ram as an attempt to recapture public attention/praise.

For context: Monkberry Moon Delight was first written/demoed at some point from May-August 1970 on his farm in Scotland. Paul's late 1969-1970 Scotland era is complicated. He often describes it as being one of the most difficult periods of his life because of the break-up of the Bealtes, the Apple financial troubles, his frayed relationship with John, and starting a whole new life which all compounded into a deep depression and alcohol abuse.

Let's start with the title and chorus. In Paul's own words, Monkberry Moon Delight comes from his kids mispronunciation of the word 'milk' and establishes MMD as a fantastical drink like 'Love Potion No. 9'. I think Paul obviously hides behind the surrealism of the lyric but its association with family and domesticity makes an interesting contrast. Though he is happy to be in his escapist domestic fantasy in Scotland, he juxtaposes this with the underlying pressure to be acclaimed (especially after being considered the greatest artist in the world for ten years). Though the song has a peppy, jaunty beat there is an air of anxiety developed through the songs key of C minor and the staccato of the piano and bass parts. His vocals also have a similar strained desperation like 'Oh! Darling'.

The lyrics:

So I sat in the attic, a piano up my nose

And the wind played a dreadful cantata

Paul starts with himself, writing. 'The attic' may be a reference to John Lennon's recording studio that he had built in his attic in Weybridge where he and Paul would often go to write.

"We nearly always went up to his little music room that he'd built at the top of the house, Daddy's Room, where we would get away from it all. I like to get away from people to songwrite, I don't like to do it in front of people. It's like sex for me" - Many Years from Now. Whether or not this is a direct reference to 'Daddy's Room', Paul is known to prefer small, confined spaces for songwriting.

'Piano up my nose' to me shows a rapt attention, leaning so close to his piano its almost up his nose. He is intently and passionately composing his 'dreadful cantata', this cantata I believe refers to "To Many People". Based on this record of the order of demos on the Ram cassette, it seems that Too Many People may have been written (or at least recorded) before Monkberry, which furthers my belief that Paul is making a meta narration of the writing of his song which he recognizes was very pointed or dreadful.

Sore was I from a crack of an enemy's hose

And the horrible sound of tomato

Here he describes what spurred him to writing this song, and this album as a whole. The 'crack from an enemy's hose' could refer to Allen Klein's treatment of Paul during the final months of the Beatles and his attempted mishandling of the release of McCartney (1970). (Note: The crack could also be from Phil Spector, the press, Ringo, George, Yoko or John; Paul is kind of getting shit from all sides right now). The 'sound of tomato' implies the idea of throwing tomatoes at an artist to express dislike or dissatisfaction, referencing the poor critical reception of McCartney (1970).

Ketchup, soup and puree

Don't get left behind

Ketchup, soup, and puree; liquidy tomatoes because splat, splat, splat go the critics. And ketchup because catch up pun.

Don't get left behind is the central theme of this song. He is worried that the public is going to forget about him while he's depressed, away in Scotland, and making critical flops. This is him desperately clinging onto the hearts of the public. Because we all know how much Paul needs to be liked.

When a rattle of rats had awoken

The sinews, the nerves, and the veins

The 'rattle of rats' could be any of the number of people who were getting on his nerves, sinews, and veins (pissing him tf off) in 1970. This could again be referencing the great "Let's all gang up on Paul McCartney" game of 1970 but because of the subsequent lyrics, I think this may be more specifically about John (and Yoko). Either way, it was these rats who annoyed him into getting to work.

My piano was boldly outspoken

And attempts to repeat his refrain

'Boldly outspoken' again connects this song to TMP. The line is similar to the TMP lyric 'This is crazy and baby, it's not like me' in the sense that both show how audacious he sees this songs as. In 'attempting to repeat his refrain' I think Paul is using the 'well he started it' justification for TMP because he's sees it as a repeat, of him rising to John's level of insults.

So I stood with a knot in my stomach and I gazed at that terrible sight

Of two youngsters concealed in a barrel, sucking Monkberry Moon Delight

Ah yes my favorite moment in all of music ever. This is the verse that really convinced me that this song may be referencing JohnandYoko. The 'youngsters in a barrel' alludes to John and Yoko's bag piece, where they would get into a black bag for...peace? As seen in Get Back, this particularly irked/disturbed Paul. "Go get in your bag. The Merseybeat award for couple of the year, goes to John and Yoko" (Get Back Episode 2). He also refers to them as 'the young lovers' in Get Back during the infamous January 13th 'and then there were two' conversation. Even though it makes him nervous and sick, part of Paul releasing TMP and Ram is to face up to the JohnandYoko powerhouse which was a non-insignificant portion of his early 1970 criticism.

Well I know my banana is older than the rest

and my hair is a tangled baretta

Here I think he is reasoning to the listener, the public, over why he thinks they've abandoned him. Paul recognizes that he has been in this music game a long time (so people may have grown bored of him) and has been depressed (and thus out of the game), his tangled 'baretta' of hair like the wily depression beard he grew out while in Scotland.

Also banana = dick, just so everyone is clear (can anyone find that banana poem from his poetry book? Also this just perpetuates my tinhat theory that all the banana milkshakes Paul got in Paris were just **** **** but I digress). Also something about Paul likening songwriting with sex so him not being 'musically desirable' is because...his music dick is old? Ok Paul.

I leave my pajamas to Billy Budapest

And I don't get the gist of your letter

This is the one lyric I am pretty unsure about. Not that every line has to fit perfectly into my interpretation but I genuinely could not make heads or tails of it. My initial interpretation was that this was referring to Billy Shears, and how during this period the Paul is dead theory regained popularity. This reference adds to the feeling of dissolution he builds in this verse.

But mike on the Beatles Bible seems to remember Billy Budapest as being a children's pajama designer though I have found not evidence of this. However going with this shot in the dark, leaving his pajamas to Billy Budapest could draw back to the theme of his current domesticity and occupation with his children.

The letter in question I believe refers to the infamous letter John and George wrote to Paul changing his McCartney release date that they had Ringo deliver which really set Paul off and kind of began the messiness of the divorce.

Catch Up, cats and kittens

Don't get left behind

Finally we get the pay off to the ketchup-catch up pun and see the resurgence of the theme; Paul feeling like he's falling behind his contemporaries and desperation to catch up.

In typical McCartney fashion, Monkberry Moon Delight is a seemingly shallow and superfluous song but actually reveals a lot about his inner turmoil at the time. Him dealing with the rejection by the critics and John by turning to his piano and creating the absolute banger that is Monkberry. This is why MMD is one of Paul's best, because of how quintessentially Paul it is. Veiling tough emotions behind ambiguous and surreal lyrics masked by a fun and light melody. Oh, the juxtaposition! Oh, the Lennon-McCartney of it all.

Anyways this is a barely organized rambling of thoughts but Monkberry Moon Delight deserves a mega analysis because it is genuinely one of the best songs Paul McCartney has ever made.

[goodmorninglou]

Red Thing

this is from a request by @cheesy2mac and it’s kinda trashy but i also kinda love it !! :)) anyway hope you enjoy and stuff idk have fun

pairing: larry stylinson

warnings: oblivious!lou, pining!haz, pizza, mentions of a red thing ;)

word count: 1,791

rating: let’s say PG-13

~~~~~

When Harry steps into his flat, grocery bags weighing down his arms, keys in one hand and mask in the other, one of the last things he expects to see is his roommate sitting on the floor whispering to a box of pizza.

Quarantine has been long, okay. Harry understands that. He was getting nauseatingly tired of his same four walls, honestly, and even today’s excursion to the grocer’s felt like a cross-country adventure, something new and exciting. But he’s also got a whole myriad of books, and he bought a new pack of journals to scribble lyrics and entries into, and even took up knitting for fun. He’s halfway through his first quilt. The point is that he’s got stuff to do. And, at the end of the day, Harry’s a homebody. He loves his home.

Louis, on the other hand.

Not to say that Louis didn’t love their flat, he did, and Harry knew that. But after a roughly a thousand FIFA matches, four full run-throughs of Call of Duty: Modern Warfare, and a toaster fire that burnt down his house in the Sims 4, he’s. Well. He’s losing it a little.

Hence the pizza, apparently.

Louis’ eyes are bright and focused and ringed with bruise-colored bags as he lifts a piece out of the cardboard box. He’s wearing Harry’s shirt, swallowing his thin shoulders, and his legs are crossed beneath him. “Om nom nom,” he whispers, almost fanatically, messy hair forming a spiky halo around his skull. “Delicious.”

For a moment, Harry stares.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Louis barely starts, azure eyes flashing up to glance into Harry’s stunned face for half a moment before returning to his pizza, folding it in half and biting into the end. “I ordered pizza.” He says, with a full mouth that Harry shouldn’t find endearing.

That’s the real problem with quarantine. Being around Louis. No escape.

Harry snorted softly and nudged Louis’ foot as he passed. “Come help me put these away, will you?” He asks fondly, tossing his keys on the counter and setting the groceries on the floor. Their kitchen is small, commonplace for a flat in London, but it’s nice. Homey, even. Harry doesn’t know if that’s because of his mom-like wall hangings and punny dish towels, or Louis’ dishes in the sink and the crude drawing he scribbled on the fridge whiteboard. Maybe a bit of both.

Louis abandons the rest of the pizza on the floor of the front room but keeps the half-eaten one with him, pinned precariously between his teeth as he shuffles into the kitchen and heaves himself onto the counter beside where Harry is washing his hands.

“How’s the outside world?” Louis asks, reaching over to wrap one of Harry’s curls around his finger. Harry tries not to jerk away from him.

“Quiet.” Harry answered honestly. And then, “But crazy, too. No hand sanitizer again.”

Louis pouted exaggeratedly, then hopped off the counter. Harry’s shirt flies up around his waist, and Harry looks away before he can glimpse the black of Louis’ boxers, the curve of his soft thighs. “Sad. Did you get chips?”

“Yes, Louis, you told me eight times.” Harry sighs, only half-seriously, shaking his head a little.

Louis bounds over to press a kiss to Harry’s cheek. “You’re fantastic.”

Harry doesn’t answer. Just turns to the bags and starts unloading.

That’s the problem with quarantine. He’s falling in love with his roommate.

=====

The next day, he comes home to Louis singing songs with Harry’s knitting needles speared through his hair and a massive notepad balanced on his knees. The paper is defaced with thick Sharpie drawing of exed smiley faces and penises.

Harry doesn’t ask.

He doesn’t ask, but his heart stutters, and he shuts himself in his bedroom until the next morning.

=====

“Let’s get a cat.”

“We’re not getting a cat.”

“Please!”

“No, Louis,” Harry mutters, shaking his head a little and tapping his pen against his knee. “Haven’t you seen all those stories about people getting pets in quarantine because they’re lonely, only to realize they have no idea how to care for pets? The poor things end up in pounds, and then...” Harry’s eyes go a little misty against his own will. “Well, you know what happens then.”

Louis pokes Harry’s thigh with his toes. “Being stuck inside has made you morbid.”

“Being stuck inside has made you crazy.”

Louis leaps on him, his journal falls to the floor, and the cat conversation is forgotten until they’re far too tired and giggly to bring it up again.

=====

Screw falling. Harry’s in love with his roommate. Full, tacky, gross, fantastic love. The kind that makes his tummy knot and his cheeks flush.

And Louis’ oblivious.

=====

It all comes to a head one day, when Harry awakes to find Louis standing on the countertop in only his pants, reaching precariously for the chips on top of the cabinet and nearly tumbling to the floor in the process. His back is slim and gold and stretched and the curve of his delicate thighs are right there and when he stretches again, the bottom of his pants rides up and the pale curve of his arse is on display and.

And.

Fucking hell.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Harry mutters sharply, too sharply, startling Louis. Harry darts across the kitchen to grab onto his calf when he starts to slip, steadying him, and Louis makes a sound like “oh.” It’s pretty.

“Good morning, Haz.” Louis greets cheerfully, one hand splayed across the top of the cabinet, chips within reach. “How’d you sleep?”

“Why the fuck are you on the counter? What are you doing?”

Louis frowns. “Not well, I see.” He mutters. And then, holding out a hand, “Help me down.”

Harry slaps his hand away, grabs him by the hips, and lifts him down.

It’s a mistake. That much Harry knows the second he’s got Louis’ skin under his palms, warm and smooth and rolling with delicate muscle, body so small between his hands. So moveable. Louis’ hands fist in the front of his shirt, tight and unstable, and when he looks up, his cerulean eyes are wide. Shocked.

His mouth parts. Harry wants to kiss him.

“Thanks.” Louis whispers. His tongue darts between his teeth, wetting his pinkish lower lip, quick and nervous. His lashes cast shadows over his sharp cheekbones. Kiss him. Kiss him. He says again, “Thanks.”

“Crush.” Harry blurts.

The whole world goes quiet.

Louis blinks. “What?”

Harry’s going to have to start looking for flat listings.

“Crush.” He says again, flushing rose, and then crimson. “I have a crush on you. A big one. And, somehow, you going absolutely bananas during this quarantine has only made it worse.” Harry pauses. “You really have gone crazy, by the way.”

“I have not.”

“You told me you were going to start writing poems about the effectiveness of capitalism vs. communism on Wednesday.”

“Because someone has to do it!”

“No one has to do it—”

“Harry.”

He likes the way Louis says his name. It’s so soft.

“I just like you.” Harry murmured. “It was driving me crazy keeping it to myself. I tell you everything, anyway, so. Yeah. I have a crush.”

He’s still holding Louis’ hips. His hands are cold when he lets go, colder than they’ve ever felt before, and they hang uselessly at his sides like he’s forgotten how to work them. Maybe he has. Maybe his hands were made for holding onto Louis.

Louis watches him blankly, lips parted, pale eyes wide and thick with confusion. He inhales, like he’s going to say something, but nothing comes. Then, he does it again.

Harry takes a step back as his heart crumples inside his chest, like old paper. A step back is all he can take.

Louis steps forward.

“I never...” he starts, ever-so-quietly, as his gaze rakes up and down Harry’s body like he’s seeing something he never thought to look for before. He crosses his arms over his bare stomach, and then drops them. “I never thought about you like that.” He says. And then, “Before.”

“Before when?”

“Right now.”

And suddenly, his gaze sharpens, sliding with unabashed intrigue over Harry’s body, his shocked face, a smug confidence curling the edges of his mouth. His eyes glitter. Assessing. Like... like he’s deciding if Harry is good enough. If he’s interested.

This Louis, Harry knows.

It feels like years of silence before Louis laughs, gently, just a delicate sound from the base of his throat, and crosses his arms. His biceps bulge. “I’d say you have to take me on a date, but restaurants aren’t open.” He murmured.

Somewhere in Harry’s frozen chest, a heart starts beating again. “So...” he began, veins sharp and vibrating.

The smirk widens. “So, it might be in your best interest to replicate one in this kitchen. Tonight. At seven. Wear the tie I like.”

“Wear the red thing I like.” Harry shoots back, a grin breaking so far across his face that his cheeks begin to ache.

A pause. Then, “Only if you’re lucky.”

Harry grins and turns towards his room, fully prepared to sift through all of his nicest clothes and refuse to decide until he inevitably rings Niall and gets no help from him, when Louis’ hand wraps around his wrist.

They’re kissing before Harry can register the fact that he’s stopped moving.

Harry’s thought a lot about kissing Louis, clearly, considering he’s half in love and Louis is the most beautiful creature to ever walk the earth. But his fantasies did nothing to compare to this. This is rapture. This is Elysium. This is, over and over and over, the greatest moment of his life to date. This.

Louis’ mouth is hot and soft and wet and his hand is tight around Harry’s wrist, spasming like he isn’t entirely sure Harry isn’t going to run away. As if he could. He smells like lemon and baby powder. The whole expanse of his torso presses against Harry’s chest when Harry threads an arm around his waist, yanking him ever closer, shuddering and shivering, heart beating out of his chest. The whole world is on fire and Louis is right there and Harry’s brain is silent. His tongue brushes Harry’s lips. Parts them. Harry grabs onto his hip and squeezes. This is definitely what his hands were made for.

Louis is panting when he pulls away, one hand lying flat over Harry’s heart, like he likes the way it pounds, the other still clasped around his wrist.

Harry’s in love with him. One hundred percent.

Louis reaches up to pat his flushed cheek and grins.

“I’ll wear the red thing.”

Harry drags him in again.