Last week, guest ArtsEtc. columnist Steve Lampiris wrote an article entitled “Battling Beatles,” in which he attempted to settle the eternal debate of Lennon vs. McCartney. I would say the attempt was laudable, but the argument was based on shoddy reasoning, swelling generalizations and laughably contorted logic. I mean no disrespect to Mr. Lampiris, but when you start a fire, don’t be surprised by the flames.

The article is based on three core arguments. The first is essentially that McCartney was “the positive one” while Lennon was the “brooding pessimist,” and because the Beatles are a band that you listen to “to feel better,” McCartney takes the prize.

The argument is ridiculous, and I hardly know where to begin. Perhaps I should address the claim that Lennon was a pessimist by pointing out that Lennon wrote, for instance, “Imagine,” a song that basically defines optimism. But Lampiris sticks to Beatles-era songs, so I suppose I should do the same and reference Lennon’s buoyant optimism in lyrics like “The sun is up/ The sky is blue/ It’s beautiful/ And so are you,” from Dear Prudence.

Yet to dwell on a list of songs strays from the point which is this: To declare that Lennon was a pessimist, McCartney an optimist and therefore McCartney more closely resembled the overall sentiment of the Beatles — a band you listen to “to feel better” — is to make a preposterous oversimplification about the band’s music, the fans’ emotions and the reasons that people listen to music in general. Lampiris’ argument depends upon the premise that people listen to music for its face value, surface and simple: major chord changes are happy, minor chords are sad. We may as well just assume that anyone who smiles is joyful, sarcasm doesn’t exist and everything is exactly as it appears.

Moreover, it’s worth pointing out the obvious observation that the music that people listen to “to feel better” isn’t always mindlessly cheerful. Rather, there’s a pleasure to be had in navigating through the complexities of human emotions. That notion is recognizable in Lennon’s, Harrison’s and yes, even some of McCartney’s work (Sorry, Ringo). When musicians are able to strike accurately at some genuine emotion, regardless of its place on a superficial optimism-pessimism scale, people connect with the music.

The other two arguments made by Lampiris are, firstly, that McCartney’s songs were “more enjoyable purely on an aesthetic level,” and, secondly, that McCartney’s songs were superior to Lennon’s because Lennon wrote “weird songs for the sake of being weird, while McCartney wrote songs that, while weird, made sense.” Both of these remaining arguments are equally mind-boggling, leaving a decent dissenter flabbergasted and then exhausted.

The author exemplifies McCartney’s aesthetic superiority with “Back in the U.S.S.R.,” a good enough song, albeit a complete Beach Boys rip-off. But that’s fine. I don’t want to ostracize fans of that song — hell, I like it too. The problem is, I could lay out a huge group of songs here that I believe are more aesthetically-pleasing than “Back in the U.S.S.R.,” but what’s the point? One’s opinion about the aesthetic quality of any piece of art or music is largely subjective, shaped not only by the author’s intentions, but by the viewer’s/listener’s interpretation.

Anyway, to be honest, I don’t even really get what Lampiris is driving at in his discussion of aesthetics. What does it even mean? Aesthetic quality in a song — is he referring to the musical intricacies, the depth of lyrics, the overall structure of the composition? With all due respect to Steve, it’s a fluff argument.

As is his third argument, the weird-for-weird’s-sake diatribe. Lampiris goes on to castigate Sgt. Pepper’s for its “monumental unlistenability,” thereby dismissing in one fell swoop one of the most influential records in rock/pop history, a record that Rolling Stone magazine heralded as the No. 1 greatest album of all time.

Lampiris’ third argument is like a mirage in a desert of inanity, chock full of hollow exclamations that sound like they’ve been brewed up by some atavistic baby boomer who misses the good old days that never were. The argument is reactionary, the philosophical equivalent of an “I mean, come on.”

The Beatles began as a lighthearted endeavor, but one of the delights for a fan is to listen to their well-documented musical evolution and appreciate each era for its own merit. Lampiris seems to yearn for old Beatles, but he loves “Hey, Jude.” You can’t have the latter without the development from the former.

I don’t mind Paul McCartney. I think he’s great at times, and I think that someone could definitely make a sound argument that McCartney was the more skilled song-crafter (I certainly wouldn’t). Lennon’s more emotionally candid, occasionally vulnerable lyrics tend to be the main reason I find myself perennially returning to the Beatles. (Well, that, and Revolver.) George was great too, and I’ll even give Ringo a shout-out. (After all, “Octopus’s Garden” is fun.) But if there’s going to be a debate about the merits of McCartney vs. Lennon, let’s not dress ourselves in sweeping statement and rhetoric; let’s have a discussion. Most people don’t completely love one and hate the other, anyway. We ought to share the enthusiasm, not hoard the antipathy. No one ever said you’ve got to hide your love away.

Ari Bar-Lev is a student at the law school. If you have any questions or clever comments, feel free to e-mail him at [email protected]