Yes, I watched Ed Sullivan’s show that night fifty years ago. Yes, I was intrigued by the sound and sight of these four mop-heads singing their hearts out. But, NO, I didn’t understand or get the hysteria of girls my age, older and younger, crying, wetting themselves, yearning with such earnest yearning to become the one and only TRUE beloved of Paul, John, Ringo or George. Maybe I was absent the day they taught us why that was important to do. Maybe the Salem Witch Trials were fresh in my mind from reading The Crucible, and I was suspicious of mass hysteria. For whatever reason, I could not get into throwing my heart at the TV.
From the relative comfort of the red cement floor, with my Sunday night homework laying inertly between my wide-spread toe-shoe clad feet, I watched over the top of step-dad Leo’s, head. He was prone, with elbows propped on pillows, his chin on his hands, and his nose maybe 14 inches from the screen, while mom tried to rock fourteen month old baby brother Steven to sleep behind me. In this familiar family-style configuration, we were gathered around our small black and white TV for this special Sunday night event. Homework remained undone until well past midnight. Phone calls to Rhonda, Vicky, Sharon and Johnette confirmed that I was odd one out for not screaming and creaming my pants.
Next day, on the long bus-ride to Belmont High, and all day at school, The Beatles’ performance was the ONLY topic. My tenth grade peers were buzzing as if high on something. Looking back, I’m guessing it was adrenaline. Maybe we needed a lift out of our deep depression over the loss of Jack & Jackie in the White House. Maybe this mania was that lift.
“I have dibs on Paul... those dreamy eyes... aaaaaah!!!”
“You can have him. John is mine. I don’t care if he IS married.”
“Nah... he’s too quiet. Ringo, Ringo, give me your ring, oh, Ringo...”
“Georgie Porgie is the one for me.”
On and on it went. And as it went I felt further and further adrift and apart from the groundswell of instant love and craving for the British invaders.
I loved the music. It stuck to my ribs. The songs were easy and fun to sing-along-with. Still, I felt a loyalty to my Friday night folk group which met at the twin’s small house, on a steep hill in Echo Park. Danny and Teddy turned their tiny living room, over to guitars, guirros, tambourines, and claves as a dozen or so of us sang our hearts out about “Where Have all the Flowers Gone,” “This Land is Your Land,” and “Last Night I Had the Strangest Dream”-with four-part harmonies.
As the war in Viet Nam got more intense, the Beatles stuck with us - morphing their and our understanding of what it means to be a caring human in a world gone mad.
Yes, I’m guessing we all get by and high with a little help from our friends. I’m grateful for the Beatle’s back-drop sound-track to those most formative years of my life. I’m certainly enjoying the revision of the ’60’s from my mid-sixties, and remembering fondly cleaning house in the ‘80‘s with my daughters while the music of the Fab Four blasted full volume from the stereo speakers.
As pop-culture seems to unify us - if even over what I may deem trivial events, I’m all for it. I don’t mind not being swept up in the hysteria of it. These days, I like really listening to the lyrics and relishing their brilliant clarity... not something that came so easily to me in those teen years of being super-distracted and full of various substances.
Sunday night’s CBS 2.5 hour special on the “Birthday Celebration” of the Beatle’s debut on US Television, twisted some of the songs around in delightful and fresh ways. Some were not covered; others were. All the lyrics have meaning to me...
“Eleanor Rigby died in the church and was buried along with her name. Nobody came.
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“When I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Mary comes to me
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be...”
And so, I shall.
Thanks, J, P, G & R.
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