Not exactly a paragon of originality, that statement, ay what?
Predictable and then some.
Okay, here's something a little less.
Predictable.
Today (the day of this writing) is the exact, on the calendar, day tripper, good day sunshine date marking the 50th anniversary of the appearance of The Beatles on The Ed Sullivan Show.
February 9, 1964.
And if, as a lot of writers of these kinds of things will attest to, that earlier February day in 1959 that brought news of the airplane crash deaths of Buddy Holly, Richie Valens and The Big Bopper was, in any other sense but literary, the "day the music died", then February 9, five years later, was the day it came back to life.
The Beatles played. The girls screamed like it was their last chance in this life to scream. Beatle mania swept across the country and the world like a virus you didn't mind catching.
The face of popular music changed forever.
Yada, yada.
Unless you've been out of the galaxy, or are a politician with your head up your a** (yeah, that is redundant, isn't it), you've already been inundated, if not saturated, with reminiscences, memories, interviews, documentaries, audios, videos coming at you from here, there and everywhere about that period in music, and cultural, history.
And while CBS will run their big, bad Beatles television tribute tonight, there's a chance, just between us kids (or from me to you, as the case may be) that you've already reached some level of overload.
Defcon Fab Four, as it were.
We just kinda went through something like that three months ago with the observance of the 50th anniversary of the gunfire in Dealey Plaza.
Sentiment, nostalgia, even a little residual heartache experienced by baby boomers aside, it's fair to say we all reached the enough is enough point with the airing of "A Very Special Episode of Duck Dynasty--The Robertson Family Reexamines The Evidence".
Still, we do love our anniversaries.
And our birthdays, too, yeah.
And, lest I be branded a naysayer or Liverpool party pooper, let's be clear here.
Although fifty years of memories might obviously be a very, very large folder of data, I am fully prepared to carry that weight.
A long time.
And, when it comes to reveling in the magical mystery tour that is a fond, even delighted, look back at that which occurred that February day, let it be known that I don't want to spoil the party.
So, roll up.
But don't expect one more reminiscence, memory, interview, documentary, audio or video coming at you from here, there and everywhere about that period in music, and cultural, history.
Rather, something that occurred to me this morning as I was reading yet another article from yet another "expert" about yet another facet of that period in musical, and cultural, history when girls screamed, mania swept and the face changed.
Yada yada.
And, interestingly enough (or so I thought, anyway), the kind of thought that could only occur on this side of the timeline.
And a perspective on the whole Beatle experience I think hasn't, up until now, been shared.
Not about the obvious and much admired, even revered, talents of The Beatles as a group.
Or their accomplishments as a group and as individual musicians and/or songwriters.
No, I realized this morning there's one part of their history that doesn't get even a mention.
What remarkable people those responsible for the upbringing of the young John, Paul, George and Ringo must have been.
What goes on?...you're wondering.
Just wait.
And if you're inclined to be dismissive, honey, don't.
50, count em', 50 years.
Fame and celebrity on an unprecedented scale.
And not a seriously reasonable tabloid story, tragic tale of talent gone wrong in the form of drunken arrest, roaring through the residential neighborhood in the Ferrari, or horrific death resulting from self indulgence of any kind to be found, including, but not limited to, self inflicted gunfire, drug overdose complete with still attached syringe or wrapping said Ferrari around a tree on a bright California day.
Yes, two of the four mop tops have met their maker.
But John was shot to death by a wack job.
And George died of natural causes.
Meanwhile, Ringo and Paul continue to live their lives, love their families, make their music and smile and respond graciously as they are inundated with questions relating to that period in musical, and cultural, history when girls screamed, mania swept and the face changed.
At the ages of 73 and 71, respectively.
And while all of these lads had, and exhibited, their fair share of human failings through the years, from drug use to marital failure, alcohol abuse to multiple "birds" flying, landing and lying down in the luxury suites of their various and sundry touring days, they managed, with the exception of a wack job target and a cancer victim, to arrive at old age with their sense of dignity and style intact.
Lives well lived, lads.
And credit where due.
To the parents/grandparents/aunts/uncles and other authority figures that molded and matured the young mop tops born John Winston Lennon, James Paul McCartney, George Harrison and Richard Starkey.
Clearly, long before anyone ever heard a single note of your musical, and cultural, history changing music...
They loved you.
Yeah, yeah, yeah.
Today will be the climax of weeks worth of observing something historic that happened fifty years ago.
And when the day is over, we will go back to our respective, usual routines.
With no more reminiscences, memories, interviews, documentaries, audios or videos coming at us from here, there and everywhere about that period in music, and cultural, history.
Then again, one can never be sure.
After all, it was Aunt Mimi's nephew, the young, rebellious Liverpool kid who formed a band and grew up to make a little musical, and cultural, history with it who sang coming up on fifty years ago...
...tomorrow never knows.
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