My parents played me The Beatles while I was still in the womb and in the end, I was compelled to make a break for the light so I could hear those sweet melodies all the better. (It was perfectly warm and comfortable in there, but the acoustics were simply awful.)
I don’t ever remember living without the Beatles. I grew up playing my mom’s vast collection of LPs, got to know the early, uncomplicated incarnation as a child, moved through the catalog to their later albums as I matured, and gained a new appreciation of songs I’d avoided or just didn’t get when I was younger: the morbid humor of “Maxwell’s Silver Hammer,” the not-so-subtle sexual innuendo of “Happiness is a Warm Gun,” the intense, simplistic beauty of “Across the Universe,” the ahead-of-its-time experimental flourishes and rhythms of “Tomorrow Never Knows,” the drawn-out groove and swagger of “I Want You (She’s So Heavy),” the psychedelic nonsensicalness of “I Am the Walrus.” John, Paul, George and Ringo were always there, and I’ve returned to the comfort of their music time and time again. (Pictured: The Beatles, 1969, [c] Apple Corps Ltd. 2009)
This article appears in Sep 2-8, 2009.