It’s all my parents’ fault,” I imagine I’ll say to medics after fainting, 1965 Shea Stadium style, when Paul McCartney sings the first few words of The Beatles’ hit Something.
I wouldn’t tell them how I only stopped short of rushing the stage because the thought of a 40-year-old mom of four clamoring toward a 71-year-old man on a piano isn’t exactly the stuff of rock videos.
I imagine that I wouldn’t tell them that I own every song by every member of The Beatles, individually and collectively. And I most certainly wouldn’t tell them that it was Paul who inspired me to become vegan (frankly because, if I told them that, it would be a lie—gallbladder surgery forced that on me—but discovering that Paul is vegan only made me admire him more).
Since finding out Paul would be playing at the Outside Lands Festival in San Francisco, I’ve been obsessed with finding a way to see him—when I wasn’t daydreaming about what it would be like to finally hear one of my all-time musical heroes sing his songs live.
I organized a cadre of babysitters for the kids and worked out a wonky work schedule to free up just enough time to see him perform. I even allowed my husband to finally buy me a new car that would make the drive to San Francisco, although I’m not sure that he was happy that the reason I forced my frugality aside and let him buy the car was to see a concert. But he is satisfied that from now on I’ll also be able to safely drive my boys to soccer practice.
But my obsession with The Beatles and its individual members began long before Outside Lands. It was inspired by a household full of 8-tracks and LPs and long sunny days in front of the turntable with Chicago, Stevie Wonder, and yes, The Beatles.
It was specifically my dad who introduced me to The Beatles, and subsequently Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Heart’s Club Band, to which I asked, “Isn’t this The Beatles?” as I ran my fingers across the wildly artistic album cover. He cruelly replied, “No, it’s Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.”
“But it’s The Beatles,” I insisted, totally confused.
“No, it’s Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band,” he replied.
Later I would discover the solo work of John Lennon and George Harrison, and, well, Ringo’s acting (Caveman anyone?), and of course Paul McCartney and Wings, and I was able to re-discover the Fab Four as individuals.
My own kids are just as enthralled with the music of The Beatles as I was as a kid. Which makes me wonder if John, Paul, George, and Ringo were truly the influentially talented supernova I think they were or if they simply made some insidious pact with the universe to get All You Need is Love to play on a loop deep in the subconscious of the entire population.
My kids know every song by The Beatles, some just by a few of George’s initial guitar licks. They know their movies—yes, even Magical Mystery Tour. And I never ever confused them by telling them Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band was not The Beatles—though my 5-year-old, Sebastian, does believe it’s the Bee Gees after having watched the movie of the same name, which starred the Bee Gees.
They each have even already discovered their own favorite Beatle. I have a theory, that everyone in the world has a favorite Beatle, even if they claim to hate the group. Jake is a George guy like my dad, Chase is a Ringo fan, as is Sebastian. My daughter Sydney is a Paul girl, although she often favored Ringo as well.
For years my husband would throw open the curtains and wake my daughter with a crackly, early morning rendition of The Beatles’ Good Morning, a song she now claims to hate but which I think secretly has a place in her heart. My boys, who are much younger than Sydney, now get the same Good Morning treatment.
Evening is no different. Every night at the dinner table we discuss our activities of the day to encourage in our children the art of conversation. Somehow our table talk began to morph from a proper discussion into a bit of a joke. It usually starts with a deliberately stated, “I woke up. Got out of bed …” followed by the inevitable sing-song retort “dragged a comb across my head,” in reference to “A Day in the Life.”
OK, that can’t be helped. I understand. But The Beatles references interjected into what’s become the now-detailed discussion have become tedious. How do you discourage children who went from a tendency toward monosyllabic discussion—“How was your day?” “Good.”—to Homer-esque tales of commonplace occurrences that they need to tone it down?
Sebastian will often do that for us when someone is dragging on too long. He will interrupt with, “Can we just listen to Slobber Pepperoni Heart Club Ben?” in a plea to hear The Beatles’ album. And yeah, he knows the music, but sometimes butchers lyrics in much the same way he likes to sing “I love rock ’n’ roll, put another diamond in that juice box, baby.” Sorry, Joan Jett.
Chase has auditioned for a play with one of The Beatles’ songs, Jake spends hours playing The Beatles Rock Band video game, and Sebastian constantly urges me to post a video of him singing (and mashing up the lyrics) to Strawberry Fields Forever.
And I am just happy to have inherited such a valuable gift from my father, one that I’ve been able to pass on to my own kids: an appreciation of poetic lyrics, an inability to resist great musicianship, and the willingness to move obstacles and travel long distances to hear great music.
Shelly Cone is going to Outside Lands Festival to see Paul McCartney, and all her dad will get is a stupid shirt.
This article appears in Aug 8-15, 2013.