While driving to Guelph to give a talk to a fresh batch of graduate students, I had an old song in my ears, something off Ram. I gave in and put it on, because I wanted to arrive intellectually caffeinated. I don’t know if Paul McCartney has any idea how many people like me still cling to those first post-Beatles records the way philosophers cling to a footnote that accidentally explains everything. They reek of post-Beatles. The way the Beatles would let a song wander off, trip over a sound effect, then grin and keep walking. White Album logic. Magical Mystery Tour logic. Abbey Road logic. It’s all here, still refusing to behave. Song after song both dumb and clever, like tasting something so balanced you stop looking for ingredients. Then, mid-listen, the universe taps me on the shoulder. That supercilious voice on “Uncle Albert,” the one I’ve heard approximately a zillion times, the one that always sounded like a British civil servant, suddenly it’s…John Cleese. How did I never notice? This is what happens when pop music is made by people who think jokes, architecture, tape edits, and bad accents all belong in the same room. Which is to say the record just got even better.