I’ve always hated this question. It just never seemed reasonable to think that
you could clearly define a person by the British Invasion. And why is the choice always between those
two? Why is The Who never thrown in as
an option? Aside from seeming like a
silly way to label a person, why do I have to decide at all? Can’t I love them both? Can’t I love them all?
When that question comes up, I refuse to be painted in a
corner and declare equal love and admiration for them all. They are different, yes, but they are all
valuable to me and forcing me to choose feels like asking me which one of my
kids I like better. Really, doesn’t that
say more about who I am? My heart is big
and I love John, Paul, George and Ringo (though, to be honest, I always leaned
more to George than the other 3, but they don’t need to know that) and I love
Mick, Keith, Ronnie, Charlie, Bill, et al.
Love can’t be measured. Love
shouldn’t be compared. It just IS. Right?
That was my firm stance.
I will not choose. You can’t make
me choose!
And then hell froze over.
Okay, not really. But Atlanta Georgia
Of course, I love the Fab Four. Of course, I wanted to watch it. Of course, I set the DVR with the hopes that
one day, maybe, probably late at night, I’d get to watch it. One day happened sooner than I expected.
Also unexpected was an epiphany. There, on the couch, under the blanket while
my kids built icy little snowmen outside, I realized that I stand firmly in
Beatles camp…and probably always have.
My husband doesn’t get the appeal of The Beatles. Probably, despite their Blues background, he
doesn’t really get the Stones, either. I
love him anyway, but I don’t understand it.
Both are thoroughly and completely in my veins. Is he broken?
OK, to be fair, his Cuban parents and grandparents in South Florida most likely didn’t have the Brits on steady
rotation on their record player. He
didn’t have older siblings to crank it on the radio. It wasn’t in the water. Also to be fair, I don’t get Run DMC or
whatever it was that was eventually in his headphones.
Meanwhile, in the Albert house, John/Paul/George/Ringo were
constantly present. We had multiple
copies of every album and 8 tracks for the car!
My sister Sue had a paperback copy of all the lyrics, which I gradually
confiscated as my own. I read this book
every day. I often fell asleep with it
in my hands. I don’t recall singing
along too much, but I READ them. I
absorbed them.
No doubt, music was everywhere in our home. The Stones (along with Jimi and Johnny and
Joe and everyone else) were also on the stereo, and coming from the amplifiers
downstairs. I read – and still read –
every musician biography I could get my hands on. It ALL mattered to me and that’s why I was so
sure that my love couldn’t be – shouldn’t be – pinned down.
Until. Until I sat
down and saw photos I hadn’t seen before.
I saw the clear influence of those four guys on a giant audience full of
people. I knew every word. And not in the karaoke sing-along way. I knew them in my heart. I realized I didn’t just know them. I LIVE them.
I truly don’t think a day goes by that something doesn’t
trigger a Lennon or McCartney lyric.
When I talk to people, I find myself referring to words of wisdom, the
fool on the hill or the real nowhere man.
And while I tell my kids that they “can’t always get what they want”, I
more often tell them that “love is all you need”.
So. I’m choosing
sides. I confess that one love really is
stronger. I still have plenty of room in
my heart for Mick and Keith. There’s
always room for Eric. Pete, Steve, Jimmy
and the gang can come visit any time they want.
But they’ll have to understand that my devotion belongs to the
mop-headed lads from Liverpool .
Everyone else figured it out during an invasion. For me, it came as a slow epiphany.
