Twist and Shout

Recorded last, at the end of a thirteen-hour day, when Lennon's voice was already shredded by a cold and a lozenge diet — one take, because there wasn't a second voice left in him. You can hear the damage: the vocal comes out torn at the edges, all rasp and no polish, which is exactly why nothing has ever bettered it. The Isley Brothers' original was smoother and funkier; the Beatles turn it into pure escalating assault, Harrison's guitar chugging on a single Latin-tinged riff while the ascending "ah-ah-ah-ah" vocal build stacks tension until it detonates on the downbeat. Ringo's cymbal work is thin and frantic. There is essentially no lyric to speak of — an invitation to dance, a body noticed, a call to shake it up — and the emptiness of the words leaves room for everything the delivery pours in. It closed the debut album, closed live sets, and closed the Royal Variety Performance with Lennon's "rattle your jewelry" jab. This is the song for the last hour of a party, when articulation has failed and volume is the only remaining form of sincerity. Play it loud enough to be physically uncomfortable. That is the correct volume.