The Beatles are overrated. Before you stop reading this and come after me, hear me out.
First order of business, have you ever listened to their album, A Hard Day’s Night? I mean really listened? Most of the lyrics are about forcing women to love them and one sided affections. I know it was 1964 and all artists have done similar things, but it comes off as desperate and childish. John Lennon, hell all of them, didn’t need help getting women at that point. They could’ve calmed down a little.
Second. Have you ever tried playing their music notes for yourself? They’re the same three chords. Nearly every song. Listen closely next time, you won’t be able to unhear it. Sorry not sorry.
Finally, it’s the fanatics that get me. The people obsessed in their faded Abbey Road shirts and vinyls they won’t get rid of. Be honest, you’re thinking of at least two people right now.
I’ve been told multiple times things like,
“How could you not like them? They’re The Beatles?
They changed the world!
Have you ever listened to “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band?”
To that I say, yes of course I have listened to it. I don’t just make broad statements without facts. I’m just saying that there’s better music out there.
My obsession with music started when I was five years old. I was a lonely child who wanted friends outside of the books I read. The images of giant peaches and fairy tales lulled me to sleep. The words became my comfort. The longing to be in the worlds of the pages, for my reality wasn’t always what I wanted. However, I wanted something along with my books. That’s where music came in.
Music made its debut on my older brother’s 13th birthday. We had finished my mom’s famous chocolate cake and it was time for presents. Me being the nosy person I am, stuck around. I may have been the only girl around and the annoying little sister, but I still wanted to know what he got as gifts. I mean I had to, right?
Anyway, back to the story. He opened his presents and the final gift was a Jimi Hendrix CD. Axis: Bold as Love to be exact. The pink and orange swirling with Hendrix as the Hindu god, Vishnu. I didn’t know anything about who this man was, but the artwork intrigued me. I told myself I’d steal the CD later and listen to it.
I promptly stole it and a whole new universe opened for me. A world of guitar solos, strong vocals, and insightful lyrics. I wanted more music. I wanted to stay awake for days at a time to learn as much music history as my brain could fit. My brain began to fill with envy about people who attended Woodstock. I even learned that Jimmy Page from Led Zeppelin played his guitar with a violin bow on their song “Dazed and Confused” to give it a more unique sound.
Now, twelve years later, my hunger for music has only intensified. No music is ever enough. Naturally, I made my first job at the record store down the street from my house. It’s called The Psychedelic Relic and is owned by Rusty Beach, a former professional drummer. While this fact has never been proven, Rusty gave me a job when I had no work experience, so I don’t question anything he has to say.
I’m at work now and ready to listen to something new. I say to Rusty, “Hey boss! I’m here. Anything new?”
He makes his way through the beaded front door and says, “Nope. But, you have a lot of organizing to do. Someone came in earlier and made a mess of the 60’s section.”
I rub my hands together in excitement and make my way over there. Any retail worker would probably freak out about this lack of organization, however, I couldn’t be more excited.
I get to tidy up vinyl! This job is a dream come true. Lo and behold, he wasn’t lying. All the records are strewn about, completely unalphabetized.
An hour later, I’m still not done. I get up to stretch my legs and get some water. As I head to get my water bottle behind the register, I trip over the three disc set, “Woodstock – Music from the Original Soundtrack and More.” The records have images of people at Woodstock, craving more music, and whom all probably hadn’t showered for days. How I wish I could’ve been there.
I go to put the record back and notice a note attached to it. It has a neon pink envelope and simply says Open Me on it. I’m not one for following rules, but I’m super intrigued.
I open the envelope and read it,
Looks like someone found me! This record store is full of days past and when music used to be good. If you want to go back to 1969 and the Summer of Love, say Woodstock four times and you’ll be set free of your own reality.”
I close my eyes. I follow the instructions and say Woodstock four times. I don’t think anything is going to happen.
I’m wrong.
I look down at my feet, now barefoot. I smell my armpits, definitely the worst body odor I’ve ever had. People pass me giving me peace signs, offering me soup.
Before I say yes to the soup, a familiar sound fills my ears.
A guitar strumming Purple Haze. Is that Jimi Hendrix?
I look up to the stage. There he is in all his glory.
I ask someone, “Where are we?”
A girl in brown corduroy pants and a flower blouse laughs at me. “Where are any of us, babe? Just enjoy the music.”
I roll my eyes with amusement. Truly the least helpful thing I’ve ever heard.
A man in only American flag pants says, “Excuse her. We’re in New York! You’re at Woodstock, sweetheart!”
How did I get here?
Will I be able to get home?
I shut down any anxieties.
Maybe I should enjoy the music.
