I don’t remember what age some hipster made me feel uncool for loving The Beatles, but I didn’t give a shit about not being cool then, and I definitely don’t now. My dad and my uncle will always make liking them cooler than any contrarian, anyway. As a kid (situated cozily in the music room of my grandparents’ home) listening to these two brothers harmonize and learning from them was one of the highest privileges of my lifetime. If I decide, Oh, I should listen to “Revolver” or “The White Album,” I know it’s because of them.
When Dad and I do karaoke, we normally pick a Paul song (although I often lean toward his Wings stuff). Paul was dad’s favorite. “No one sings like Paul,” he’d say. “Listen to this part!” But he had an affinity for Ringo (who he looked like in his youth), and George’s guitar playing, and John—well, when it came to John he’d always say, “Do you know how much goddamn good music we got robbed of? It makes me so mad.” Little girl me would nod emphatically.
Singing with my dad is the easiest, most amazing thing in the world. I know exactly which notes to hit to complement him, because of him. But his voice is less strong now, and he sometimes forgets parts, so I happily carry us. Paul’s voice (at a similar age) is less confident, too, though no one will say it.
When I was younger, I had the biggest crush on Paul and his sad eyes—slanted like a Precious Moments porcelain figure. I’d tell a story in my head that anyone with eyes like that would sing the best because their sadness is like a spell. It enhances every sound that comes out of their mouth and pokes at the listener’s heart in a way that can only be described as delightfully destructive. Do we continue to listen because we’re inherently sad as well?
Kind of. My dad is melodramatic, much in the way that I am, though he’d never admit it to anyone. He’d hate that I’m putting any of this in writing. Loving Paul, I think, means loving something tender and wistful and earnest. If you loved John, I think you loved something a little more hardened and cool and acerbic.
Because my dad had a preference for Paul and pretty songs, I grew up believing tenderness deserves defending. Sometimes that makes me live inside the humiliation of sweetness. And though that often has me tearing up during walks with headphones, I refuse to change.
if you liked Ringo best, you became the contrarian hipster and no longer enjoy The Beatles (I know, I won’t tell you what you think). If you liked George best, you really are cool as hell.
Thoughts?