"Instant Karma!" (John Lennon)

When I first heard John Lennon's 1970 single "Instant Karma!" as a little kid, I had no clue what karma was.  (I'd venture that was true of most listeners.)  But, my God, the sound of this song.  It was my first introduction to producer Phil Spector's "Wall of Sound" and unlike anything I'd ever heard.  There was so much reverb and yet so much punch—particularly Alan White's drums.  (His drum fills alone make the song a classic.)  
But you also can't ignore that vital piano line and ardent chorus of singers backing Lennon's throat-ripping vocal: Well we all shine on / Like the moon and the stars and the sun.  There's a galaxy of beauty in that sentiment.  
It's impossible not to feel fantastic after hearing this rallying cry for humanity to get its act together.

"Come Together" (The Beatles)

I wasn't always in love with "Come Together."  I hated it as a child, actually.  

More than anything, John Lennon's eerie, whispered Shoot me's followed by those echoey handclaps scared the hell out of me when I was little.  But there also were his lyrics: not one word seemed to be in its proper place.  It was as if he'd taken the language that my little kid brain was still trying to learn and chopped it up before also turning it inside out.  It bothered me profusely.

That's why for years when my mother would play Abbey Road (1969), I'd often ask her to start the album with George Harrison's "Something" instead of the Lennon-penned opener.

But then I hit puberty.  Half the time, my thoughts and feelings didn't make much sense, and even when they did, I wasn't all that interested in articulating them.  Suddenly, Lennon's bizarre, purposely inscrutable lyrics and twisted blues resonated with me, and all of my hormone-fueled moodiness and awkwardness—especially when it came to communication—had a theme song.

Today, I simply appreciate the song as an example of Lennon's genius and humor.  I mean, who the hell else could have gotten away with a line like Got to be good lookin', 'cause he's so hard to see?

I also feel this song is a perfect example of how this band was more than the sum of its parts.  Would the track be half as memorable without Paul McCartney's slinky bass?  Would it be half as sexy without Harrison's understated, upper-octave lead guitar?  Would it groove half as hard without Ringo Starr's thumping tom-toms and hi-hat work?

The obvious answer is "no" on all counts.

That's also the reason why no cover version of this song will ever come close to matching the rawness and animal magnetism of the original.

"Hold On" (John Lennon)

"Hold On" is such a brief song that it's kind of easy to overlook the track when thinking about the totality of John Lennon/Plastic Ono Band (1970), a raw, sometimes ragged collection of songs steeped in brutal honesty and pure emotion.  Actually, "Hold On" is almost less of a song and more of a mantra: its repeated invocation for himself, Yoko, and the world to "hold on, it's gonna be alright" feels like a prayer, spoken in deep meditation.  The words brim with hope and are framed perfectly by the understated rhythm guitar.  (The moment I hear those opening chords and that warm tone, I know it's Lennon, through and through.)  
And if nothing else, it has Lennon throwing in a little homage to Cookie Monster during the bridge.  It's impossible not to crack a smile when you hear it.

"Strawberry Fields Forever" (The Beatles)

So much has been written about "Strawberry Fields Forever" already, so I'll keep the history portion brief.
In 1966, The Beatles had tired of touring.  The crazed fans, various death threats, and breakneck schedule had taken their toll, and the band was on the verge of breakup.  So they officially retired from the road and turned their focus exclusively to making records.
The studio follow up to their mid-1966 album Revolver originally was planned as a concept album: a collection of original songs about childhood memories of growing up in Liverpool.  As we all know, the band famously took the album concept in a different direction, pretending to be an Edwardian-era marching band in day-glo uniforms, playing a concert for a crowd of onlookers.  Nevertheless, two songs were recorded for the nostalgia project before it was abandoned: Paul McCartney's "Penny Lane" and John Lennon's "Strawberry Fields Forever," both released as a double A-side single in February 1967.
Strawberry Field (minus the "s") was the name of a Salvation Army home for children, located a short walk from Lennon's childhood home.  He and his boyhood friends would often play in Strawberry Field's garden, despite his aunt's stern orders not to trespass on the property.  (My guess is that's exactly why they played there and why it held such fond memories for him.)
I first heard "Strawberry Fields Forever" on the car radio on the way home from my elementary school's annual Halloween Carnival, which was sort of a throwback to rural harvest festivals, complete with bobbing for apples, cakewalks, and the like.  The ghosts-n'-goblins feel of the evening kind of fit with the psychedelic vibe of the song's eerie Mellotron flutes, strange backwards percussion, and heavily compressed strings.  So for many years, the song just evoked fond memories of being 6 years old and playing carnival games in a homemade lion costume.
But when I bought Magical Mystery Tour on CD as a teenager and listened to it while driving to/from school, "Strawberry Fields Forever" resonated with me for a different reason.  Lennon's poetic, stream-of-consciousness lyrics painted the picture of a bittersweet childhood: the innocence and escape of Strawberry Field pitted against feelings of being a misunderstood oddball.
I'd also felt like the odd man out growing up.  I was an only child, and there were no kids my age in my neighborhood to play with, so I learned early on to keep myself occupied—drawing, building Lego cities, going on fantasy time travel adventures on my bike, or pretending to be a rock star and putting on concerts for my stuffed animals and action figures.  I also spent a lot of time around the adult members of my family.  Consequently, my interests and topics of conversation tended to be a little more World News Tonight than Fraggle Rock.  So I often felt like I was speaking a different language from some kids at school, never really connecting with them on an intellectual level.  That's why Lennon's whole lyrical motif of knowing you have a passionate, singular point of view but having difficulty expressing it to others really struck me.  
I came to embrace the song's refrain Strawberry Fields, forever as a kind of rallying cry for individuality—a declaration that, just because you're misunderstood by some doesn't mean you should change how you look at the world.

"Revolution" (The Beatles)

Frankly, it's a pain in the ass to write about The Beatles.  Everything they ever performed, wrote, said, wore, etc. has been scrutinized and analyzed to the point of oblivion.
And it's infinitely frustrating to scan the Web and find the same, rehashed information (or misinformation), over and over.  So I'll keep my rehashing brief.
It's 1968.  John Lennon is feeling pressure from various factions to support their radical agendas, including anarchy and overthrow.  Also, the Vietnam War is escalating, and Lennon wants to publicly address the topic—something the band's former manager, the late Brian Epstein, had prevented him and the others from doing.
So Lennon writes "Revolution," which is distinctly anti-revolutionary.  His message to the world: we all want change, but violence is not the answer.
The band records a semi-acoustic, bluesy version in May/June of 1968, which comes to be known as "Revolution 1."  Paul McCartney and George Harrison feel it's "too slow" to be released as a single.  So they head back into the studio in July to create a blistering version with Nicky Hopkins on electric piano, which ultimately is released as the B-side to McCartney's "Hey Jude."
So, there it is.
I hate to admit I first heard "Revolution" on a 1987 Nike commercial.  (Yes, that one, which resulted in the surviving Beatles suing the shoe company, its ad agency, and EMI/Capitol Records.)  And I can't believe I'm going to say this, but I think Yoko Ono was right—the commercial had the effect of introducing Lennon's song to a new generation.  Personally, I couldn't have cared less about the commercial or what it was selling; I just liked the song.
Although, I was sporting a pair of Nikes by Christmas that year.  Hmm...
Anyway, between Ringo Starr's compressed drums and Lennon/Harrison's overdriven guitars (fed directly into the mixing console to get that raunchy, fuzzed-out sound), I'd venture that no other song about pacifism has rocked quite as hard, before or since.

"Working Class Hero" (John Lennon)

"Working Class Hero" from the raw/honest/anti-pop John Lennon/Plastic Ono Band (1970) may well be the most personal song that John Lennon ever wrote.  In fact, its spare Dylan-esque guitar and lo-fi production make it feel more like eavesdropping on a private session with his psychoanalyst than a song meant for public consumption.
Lyrically, he's questioning conformity and the status quo while sardonically looking at his own lot in life as a "working class hero."  It's clear that he sees himself as anything but a hero.
Whether you agree with the sentiment or not, you can't deny the man is telling the truth as he sees it, which is what makes it so compelling and timeless.

"She Said, She Said" (The Beatles)

Apart from being one of Ringo Starr's best performances on tape (his drum fills here are a thing of wonder), "She Said, She Said" is one of John Lennon's best compositions on the album Revolver (1966).
The Beatles were staying at a rented house in Beverly Hills during a break from touring in mid-1965, when Roger McGuinn and David Crosby of The Byrds dropped by with LSD, ready to party.  Everyone (with the exception of Paul McCartney) got their dosage and started tripping.  However, George Harrison began to panic, telling the others that he felt like he was dying.  Actor Peter Fonda, who also happened to be in attendance, tried to console Harrison by assuring him that he wasn't dying, repeatedly telling him, "You're not dying; I know what it's like to be dead," while simultaneously showing The Beatle a bullet wound from childhood, the result of a gun accident that had almost killed him.  
Whatever Fonda's intentions, the discussion of death and bullet wounds freaked Harrison out that much more.  Lennon, ever the big brother to Harrison, berated Fonda for talking about death, chiding him with, "You're making me feel like I've never been born!"
As McGuinn later recounted to Rolling Stone, "We were all on acid, and John couldn't take it.  John said, 'Get this guy out of here!'  It was morbid and bizarre."
To stick it to Fonda, Lennon wrote a song that he initially called "He Said, He Said," about the incident in LA, incorporating Fonda's words (I know what it's like to be dead) as well as his own retort (You're making me feel like I've never been born) into the song's lyrics.  Ultimately, Lennon decided that "he said" didn't sound quite right, so he changed it to "She Said, She Said."
It's a favorite of mine because it sounds deceptively simple: a straight-ahead rocker with a bit of West Coast influence.  But there are subtle things in Lennon's composition that are pure genius—like switching from 4/4 to 3/4 and back again on the bridges, utilizing the shifting time signature as a way to indicate dialogue between two people who aren't really syncing up intellectually.  Same thing with Lennon's chiming rhythm guitar against Harrison's almost brass-like lead.
It also has a pure, mid-60s guitar sound and a simple but effective bassline, which is played by Harrison, not McCartney.  (Like the party that inspired the song, McCartney sat this one out.)

 

"Love" (John Lennon)

John Lennon/Plastic Ono Band is an album that probably wouldn't have happened if The Beatles hadn't gone their separate ways.  Or, at the very least, it would have been a very different album.
But, as it is, it's quite the time-tested artistic statement from a complicated, immensely talented individual: one moment he's exorcising his demons through thumping, thrashing, bare-bones proto-punk; the next, he's playing the most beautiful, most delicate patterns on piano or acoustic guitar and expressing the purest of emotions.  He tosses everything out the window and puts his guts on a plate.  It is one of the rawest, truest, most confidently vulnerable albums of all time.  (This relatively short album is the home of several of my all-time favorite songs.)
One of the standouts from the album is "Love."  It features Lennon on acoustic guitar and producer Phil Spector on piano.  On the album version the piano begins ever so faintly (differing from the 1982 single remix, which remains the same volume throughout), fading up very gradually over the course of about 30 seconds.  It's a brilliant arranging/production technique that makes you really lean in and give your undivided attention.  Because by the time Lennon intones Love is real / real is love... you're entranced.
The lyric is innocently simple, but far from being banal.  The words have a deep, universal truth that always resonates and never gets old.  My favorite line of all:
Love is needing to be loved.
Timeless.