Invasion or epiphany?...

When people are getting to know one another, shooting the breeze, maybe having a beer or seven, and the topic turns to music, there’s one question that will inevitably be presented:  Stones or Beatles?

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 did.  Which meant I was able to gain control of the television long enough to finally watch the 50^th Anniversary Beatles Tribute.  The lady of the house having control of the remote for something like that is almost as rare as a Georgia ice storm.

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.