I Think It's Time You Met the Beatles

I realized lately that for all my declarations, it’s been a while since I’ve really written about music (as opposed to the music industry). That’s partly because I spent most of this summer picking up more musical blind spots—albums I’ve never actually “processed” from beginning to end as the artist intended, despite knowing many or all the songs as filtered through thirty years of living on planet earth.

I was chatting with a friend of mine about this via email. We’ve known each other for fifteen years—we met in high school teaching each other different parts of “Holy Wars” in guitar class.  I was telling him about the many blind spots I’ve been filling in and his response was “You know, I always wondered if you were ever going to get into classic rock.” He was happy that we could talk about bands and albums that have been part of his musical language his entire life—it’s simply what he grew up with (me, I grew up with folkies). But at the same time, it’s a little shaming. I can’t help it: I’ve been a freak for music since I was a kid, but in the last few years I’ve really come to realize that much of my knowledge of pop’s history is more casual than I'd like.

The first record I ever owned was Meet the Beatles. A fitting first record, I think, and my parents had to have known that. (But why, when I was in kindergarten, did they buy Meet the Beatles for me, and not my older brother or sister? Did they see something in me at that young age? That album—purchased for me—was the only Beatles album in the house. But I digress.) Anyway, it was the only Beatles album I ever owned until I was a sophomore in college, when one of my roommates gave me Sgt. Peppers, again on vinyl, as a gift. The next Beatles album to land in my possession—Revolver—was a gift yet again, six years later, this time from my wife. Third time was the charm: I finally felt the need to fill in the entire discography (something I’m still working on, actually, though close to complete.)

There’s something a little poetic that my first three Beatles albums would come as gifts from these three people—parents to son; best friend to best friend; wife to husband. How's the song go? “Love, love, love?”

But still. I mean, it’s fucked up. I was 28 when I finally decided for myself that it was time to go to the record store and exchange dollar bills for an album by the greatest pop group of all time. Oh, and this was five years after my stint as a record store employee. Truly it’s unforgivable.

Of course it’s ludicrous to think I never “knew” the Beatles, despite never sitting down, alone—that part’s important—with one record from beginning to end. They’re simply too ubiquitous to not understand on a more than casual level whether you want to or not. Nevertheless it’s a significant experience to listen to Revolver and understand that “Taxman” came first, followed by “Eleanor Rigby,” and so on. To truly understand the Beatles beyond merely expert crafters of pop songs—to grasp each member’s role within the context of the album, how Lennon’s songs played off McCartney’s, how Harrison nearly steals the whole show in his rare appearances, even how Ringo’s one-song-per-album injects a necessary type of levity into each release (and importantly, to note that there is a variety of kinds of levity on each Beatles album)—can only be done through processing the album itself. Tracks out of context can be exquisite, but for the best artists a mere single is ultimately unfulfilling.

It was really a revelation though because here I thought I knew every freakin’ Beatles song ever written simply by dint of being alive. But it’s a whole ’nother experience when you hear them in proper order, as the band intended. Despite thinking there was nothing new to understand, even at age 28 it was like hearing them for the first time. As my friend said, “the first time is always like fucking Christmas!”

And for that matter it’s important not only to listen to an entire album from beginning to end, but to experience a discography, as I’ve been doing steadily for the Beatles—and many other groups—in the last many years. I’ll revisit this idea in the coming weeks (starting next week when I get into my quarterly installment of My Listening Hours).

I suppose I’m just navel-gazing. In fact I sat down to write this post not because I’m on a Beatles kick (I’m on a Byrds kick); and not because I wanted to even write about the Beatles (I was going to write about R.E.M.—boy, you should’ve seen the rough draft of this post!). Really what I wanted to get at is that thrill of discovery, so often followed by a bout of self-agonizing: why didn’t I know about this before?

There are a thousand bands or albums that can give you this feeling. My example of the Beatles is extreme, but surely we all experience this feeling regularly. Last year I heard Television’s Marquee Moon for the very first time and it had the same effect. What was your last revelation/humiliation?

Comments

[jeremy]

I guess I've told you before, but seriously, my biggest ever revelation/humiliation was Pavement. Here I am, a guy who grew up on 90's alternative/indie rock, and I didn't know just how great these guys were. I'd heard them (in fact, a band of mine in college even covered a song of theirs once) but hadn't "heard" them. And when I did, it really was that, "why did it take me so long" feeling. I've never been the same.

[pgwp]

As far as high school goes (you know, you were there with me), I wasn't on the Pavement train either, aside from the Crooked Rain singles on MTV. In college I had a roommate who really liked them, and while working at the record store I listened to "Brighten the Corners" a lot because it was a new release at the time.

But a couple months ago, on your recommendation actually, I actually purchased Crooken Rain. I like it, though I can't say it blows me away the way it does for you. The weird thing is that despite not listening to it in high school, that's all I think about when I put the record on. It's like it's insinuated its way into my memories.