It is “a decisive moment in the history of Western civilization.”
              The Times, a British daily, on the release of The Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely        Hearts Club Band

When I was a boy The Beatles had their own Saturday morning TV cartoon. The cartoon Fabs had big noses and the famous haircuts, and every episode was essentially the same: one of the four (usually Ringo, great actor that Ringo) would do something out of bounds on the way to a concert, putting the band in a bind, whereby they would be chased by screaming girls and law enforcement. Naturally, the Liverpudlians made the gig just in time and the shenanigans would end with a song. I always wondered why all the Brit cops were named “Bobby.”

On weekends in 2017 kids are occupied with the Twit or waging virtual war with kids on Neptune, but back in the late ’60s, Saturday-morning cartoons were IT—talked about on the playground, rehashed like last night’s leftovers and full-on consumed in pajamas along with three bowls of Quisp, a glass or two of Nestle’s Quik and a pitcher of Tang. And while The Beatles cartoon wasn’t at the top of any eight-year-olds playlist, it was silly and mindless and occasionally funny and British and the music was good. Good like it must have been for the lucky few who saw one of the 1,400 shows they performed as The Beatles between 1961 and 1966. I’m still a little torqued that one of my older sisters never took me to one of those shows. They would have been of premier screaming age in the late ’60s, but while some Beatles platters were floating around my house, I never remember even one “Yeah-Yeah-Yeah” coming out of those girls.

I hope you don’t mind me going on a bit about The Beatles. They may be far from saints, but their music is heavenly, surely powered by something divine. And The Beatles phenomenon—four master musicians (maybe three and one-half) from the same downtrodden neighborhood willing to go laughingly into the unknown—is so impossible, so nuanced, so Halley’s Comet, so packed with sonic brilliance that it just blows my mind. So I buy Beatles trinkets old and new (lighters, lunch boxes, dolls, magazines, kitchen accessories, things that cost too much and have no practical use). I own vinyl and remastered everything. I read books about them.

It makes karmic sense that the two remaining Beatles are the two that don’t have to be alone. There was karma everywhere with those Beatles, like there could have been no Beatles without the subtraction of Pete Best and the addition of Ringo because Ringo’s go-with-the-flow demeanor served as an emotional lifeline for the somewhat manic John, Paul and George. The last song they recorded, and none of the four definitively knew it was the last, is called “The End.” Karma. The Beatles knew Abbey Road might be their last time in the studio together; on the final guitar solo, Paul, George and John all took a turn. Yoko was often in the studio at this point, but for this ultimate recording, John told her, “Not this time, love.” And as karmic luck would have it, Paul wasn’t really dead. The “Paul is dead” urban legend was due in part to the Abbey Road cover. In it, Paul is barefoot and out of step, George is dressed like a gravedigger, Ringo a mortician and John a priest. The license on the VW bug behind the lads reads “28IF”—Paul would have been 28 “IF” alive. A portion of “A Day in the Life” tells a story of Paul’s car crash. Of course, John wrote a song called “Instant Karma,” and he also had a thing for the number nine. His first house was at number nine Newcastle Road, he was born on October 9 and though he was killed on December 8 in New York, it was December 9 in Liverpool.

I feel sorry for the people that don’t get The Beatles, though I can see how genius is somehow elusive to the commoner. Not long ago I was listening to the radio and one of the hosts asked the other if he knew of The Beatles, could he name one? After some dazed moments he finally came up with Ringo but could go no further. Really? Asked to name a Beatles tune he eventually arrived at “Let It Be,” but no other titles came to mind. That’s a silly way to go through life, Beatle-less that is. To live a life without any meaningful exposure to John, Paul, George and Ringo is like a life led without a taste of ice cream or the sensation of a toe in the ocean or without the wagging tail of a Labrador or without ever having had a hard kiss on the lips. The very thought of such a thing makes my guitar gently weep.