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David Bowie sang, "Ch-ch-changes / Turn and face the strange…" and strange it is to face our own changes. I think most of us still picture ourselves as teenagers, all rebellion, confusion, and opinion floating around in search of respect. Looking to have a drivers license, be able to drink, and have a steady date around often enough to keep our libidos massaged. Over the years we have changed, but of course, we know this, it's just been such a gradual process for the most part that the subtleties have slipped past almost totally undetected. This is what has been happening to me. I had to run in (well, maybe not run exactly!) to the mirror and take a look at the image. My god! It was me alright, but what the hell had happened! Oh yes, age, maturity, responsibility, kids, car payments, insurance, a mortgage, a steady job! No wonder I look like that! I'm 18 and I look like I'm freakin' 53! Fancy that, eh? I guess chronologically it is correct, but to an 18 year old with aspersions of rock stardom and the ongoing debauchery of young female flesh, this is one lousy joke. Thanks life! Well, here is the piece that sparked this nauseous discovery of my continuing metamorphosis from pimple faced adolescent to wobbling geezer. Using the Beatles to describe a generation, our generation, and the ultimate rise and fall of us all. Pardon me if I doze off while you read, but after all, I am OLD ya' know! Suddenly, "Hello, hello / I don't know why you say goodbye / I say hello" is running over and over through my head, like the ponderous sound of a slow freight train in the quiet of a coal black night. I think I know why. Yesterday was the 30th anniversary of The Beatles first appearance on the old Ed Sullivan Show; February 9th, 1964. It really doesn't seem to be all that long ago, but then at the same time, it seems almost like forever. Like most of early 60's youth, I had been an immediate convert and rabid Beatles fan from the first time I'd seen them. My first glimpse was accidental. My folks watched the old Jack Paar Show and he played a film clip showing three bands from England. The Beatles were the tamest of the three groups, the others being, a shaggy looking Animals fronted by Eric Burdon, and a motley outfit, The Pretty Things, who had hair down to their butts and were shown having it done at a beauty shop! Totally weird for the day, let me assure you and it was Paar's way of showing America the new decadence among modern British youth. The Animals went on to success on both sides of the "pond' as did the Beatles. The Pretty Things were a bit too radical and didn't have that readily identifiable sound needed to propel them into the spotlight. They have had a cult following for years, but were never top 10 material like the other two groups. I had known about the scheduled performance of The Beatles a couple of weeks in advance and had been looking forward to the Sunday night event. When the night finally arrived, we had our old black and white Zenith tuned to CBS, as was our family routine for a Sunday evening. We awaited the stiff-necked Ed Sullivan and his many variety show guests. The Beatles finally made their appearance to an audience of madly screaming teenaged girls and proceeded to steal the show. By the time the program was over, I felt electrified by the music and the image of John, Paul, George, and Ringo playing joyously to the screaming fans. My mother kept her impressions to herself behind a non-committal grin, later admitting that she thought they were "harmless enough." Little did the woman know! My father grumbled and snickered at the 'pretty boys with their girlish hair." Their "look" was his first assault, like any red blooded father of the 60's who had lived through the depression and the Second World War, but being an old Dixieland and Big Band Jazz musician himself, he didn't much care for the adolescent lyrics and amateur chord changes either. Their attitude didn't phase me in the least, to the contrary, it only helped reinforce my own opinion that they were the best thing to happen to music in a thousand years; another point I shared with a generation. We all know now that the boys made several more appearances on the Sullivan Show, followed by a "parade" of their British musical compatriots. While in the process, they went on to become the biggest musical phenomena in the history of the world. A whole generation grew up, graduated high school, then college, and married and had families. We established careers and set goals. We went on to become fat, bald, and changed homes and jobs like most people changed socks. We saw our lives mirrored in the personal dilemmas of the 'Fab Four,' experiencing the joys of drugs, love, family, and the realities of aging and death. Not even the success they found could protect them from the harsh intrusion of a world gone insane; something that the lowliest and the greatest must confront on a daily basis on the way from cradle to grave. Every time these milestones appear; anniversaries, birthdays, a star on the walk of fame, a knighting by the Queen Mother, I'm reminded again of my youth. At first I'm elated to see familiar faces staring at me from the TV tube, magazine, newspaper or such, but I have to openly admit that the older and more distanced I become from the events of the 60's the more saddened I become. I've read dozens of stories and seen even more movies that draw on a person in their later years looking back upon their life. More often than not the reflection is a bitter one, not that everyone has lived a life of pain, but presentations in a literary vein more often serve as warnings to the rest of us that we should live our lives to the fullest, because our lives are all much too short to be just pissed away. This is what now comes to mind every time I see a piece on my old friends The Beatles. At forty-four the music and images from those yesterdays have begun to dim. It is startling, even shocking to me to realize this, because this music was once my entire life. I suppose this is the reality of life; the reality which lies just beneath the surface of the day to day. We do not have a chance to sense it, because of a quiet conspiracy on the part of our memory and subconscious. It is a carefully orchestrated blindness to the facts that our lives have changed while we were going about the activities of our lives. Now it seems that each time I hear "In My Life" or "Yesterday" or see a clip about the group on Entertainment Tonight or perhaps the evening news, I find myself waxing nostalgic for the carefree days of my teens. A time when the days were long and the nights were all to short. A time of super humans who were going to be the first people on the planet to live forever. We pushed the envelope, bent the rules, challenged everything and everyone, brazenly daring any force in the universe to interfere with our dreams. We met the devil face to face, danced within his embrace, and when he growled his displeasure at our impunity, we spit in his eye and laughed. We, the unique children of the age of Aquarius, pursuing life through a colorful, cosmic, psychedelic time of inexhaustible energy, explosive creativity, and unbridled and all consuming passion. It is a shame that youth is blind; always was and always will be. We children of the explosive 60's were no different. Immersed in an era that spun like a blender full of social dysfunction and reform, we saw what we wanted to see. We thought we were going to change the world with our unique vision of what was good for humankind. If we, as a whole or as individuals, had known how blind we truly were we may have been more aware of the pit-falls that were to come. It may not have changed our lives outright, like the wave of a magic wand, but it certainly would have made us more focused on the changes we were offered. Having said that, it must also be stated that being a teenager is inherently the state of disregarding any wisdom offered by people over twenty-five years of age; an unwritten, but well known rule of the cosmos. This rule has a great deal of merit, to the point that our whole social system might falter and through us all into chaos if it were to be altered. It happens to be a well known fact that if teenagers didn't rebel against the ideals and advice of their parents, teachers, and adults in positions of authority, they would more than likely end up living at home forever. (This is actually a sad pattern that seems to have insinuated its way into our modern society, seemingly born of failure to instill our children with the tools to become functioning members of our tribe) As repulsive a thought as this is to a teen, it's an even more horrifying vision to an embattled and aging parent. When children are born they are cute, adorable, cuddly little balls of pink fluff; so innocent and defenseless. This has its purpose, it keeps parents from 'eating' their young! Anyone who has been plagued by an infant with colic knows exactly what I'm talking about. Babies are big responsibilities right from the start, but by the time these 'bundles of joy' reach their teens a biological function is triggered. Suddenly our little darlings develop pimples, nasty body odors, and a set of sloven grooming habits. They have discovered a ravenous appetite for all the good stuff in the refrigerator and a seeming lack of social conscience. At the same time they develop an attitude that the whole world is out to deprive them of all the joy in their lives. They spend large amounts of money on very little while managing to have no financial support other than an ability to beg their parents wallets dry. This is all part of the plan, the grand scheme, which soon escalates to the level of open warfare; the battlefield is defined, an outrageous war has broken out. By the time the late teens have arrived, high school graduation is at hand, the two factions are so tired of the battle that when the final separation occurs there is much celebration from the "flight from the nest." If they were still cute and cuddly bundles of joy, we'd still be washing hash marks out of their underwear right up till the day we finally dropped dead. The Beatles generation was out to change the world. It wasn't a new concept, every generation prior to ours has gone through the same growing pains, only the rules have changed a bit this time around. Our world was in turmoil. Our television sets not only brought us the entertainment of an Ed Sullivan, but it also let us see the ugly side of life as well. J. F. K. was assassinated in a cloud of confusion, possible lies, and conjecture soon to be followed by his brother Bobby and the Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr. The civil rights movement was shown under attack in the streets by redneck cops and attack dogs. Vietnam, a war of insanity was running on the blood of our nations youth and dividing its citizens. It left us all slack jawed at the dinner table every night gazing at the flickering black and white images of napalm and fire in a jungle half way around the world. The drug counter-culture bloomed under the banner of "Tune in, turn on, drop out!" Our parents were as much at odds with what was happening as we were. The questions we asked about the war and other issues of the day more often than not went unanswered. If we did receive an answer, it was usually thrown out in anger or frustration, stemming from a lack of understanding the strange times we were living in. Equally frustrating for our parents was our desire for a world of peace and love, which although it was admirable, was seen as being a rather naïve way of thinking. Years later, the light bulb of realization would go on to illuminate a basic precept of humankind. Simply stated: if you put two or more people together for any length of time, someone will try to take control and the other will then attempt to murder them for trying. Until some benevolent cosmic force comes to Earth and forces us to submit to peace and love, this aforementioned scenario is destined to be reenacted ad infinitum. In the 60's you wouldn't have heard me state anything this negative, but in the 90's with thirty years of hindsight as reference, I can now plainly read "the hand writing on the wall." The dream continues to unravel: John Lennon takes six shots from some delusional butt-hole lunatic from the fringe and dies. Ringo Starr plays a miniature railway conductor on the PBS Shining Time Station program so his grand kids can see him in something sweet and untainted by the grime of the real world. George Harrison now floats through a minor musical existence attaching himself to the likes of Tom Petty, Bob Dylan, and Roy Orbison while living off his Beatles royalty checks. Paul McCartney, rich enough to sit back and take up knitting, continues to bore us with one dull record after another. No longer boyishly cute, his egocentric interviews droll on about music, life, and the cosmos, and tend to make him another irritating pop star with nothing to really say; nothing to really offer. Rather a sad state of affairs for the keystone figures of my rock n' roll years. It would seem all the ills of life have befallen the "Fab Four" just as they have overtaken the rest of us. Adding to the image of a generational metaphor, I know a lot of Pauls, Georges, Ringos, and even a few Johns. It should be interesting to see what will happen to the remaining three in the future. We have bought their records, danced to the beat, kissed and hugged to the familiar melodies in the dark, and lived through their marriages, divorces, drug busts, spiritual journeys, and all the successes, failures, births and deaths, that in the end are merely reflections of our own lives. Well, after writing this, I still find I'm thinking about this 30th anniversary milepost with conflicting emotions. I am elated and joyful about reliving a more enjoyable period of my life through the Beatles words and music, while feeling a bit sad and empty at the thought that it is now long since gone. We seem to have come a long way in thirty years, and yet I also get the feeling we have gone nowhere. We have changed with age, something we thought would never happen, leaving our politics tempered, our outrage subdued, our personal goals obscured or even lost, our super-human feelings now tarnished by the physical deterioration of age, and a great deal of our fantasies forever dashed by bullets, OD's, and disease. Even though it may sound like bitterness and misgivings, in actuality, I wouldn't have traded living through the Beatles era and the 60's for anything. I even find myself telling my kids that they missed out on one hell-of-a time; "Right Dad, spare us the hippie stories, okay?" I can hear them groan. Ah well, too bad I say; I guess they've heard it all somewhere before. All this Beatle talk has got me wanting. So if you'll excuse me, I think I'll go give myself a "musical massage." Dust off "Rubber Soul," oil down my tired and abused ego, and give my old brain a well deserved rub. Join me? Your faithful reporter
- RCat Who is this Guy RCat? Currently, his duties include acting as the head of a family consisting of an overworked wife, a vibrating teenaged son, and an over stimulated housecat. An elder daughter resides at some distance with her own family; a husband, two sons, and a daughter. As head of this merry band of pranksters, the illusionary aspects of his carefree life are played out on the stage of daily routine. RCat is a self described "survivor," having lived through the "flower power" promises of the 1960's with the goals of world peace, universal brotherhood, free-love, and the legalization of certain organic herbs. Contrary to what others might say, he can still remember parts of it quite vividly. Sadly, those cosmic issues have now been reduced to the cliché. He now, more realistically, understands the world has gone quite mad and no longer cares to be a part of the continuing descent into oblivion. The thought of putting on a loincloth to venture forth and live out his days meditating in a tall tree in a distant forest sounds appealing. Of course, he isn't kidding himself. Chances are a noisy bunch of cretins will quickly invade the tree next to him. Ah well, such is the way of this planet we call home. In the meantime, he scribbles poetry, short stories, and essays, as well as a choppy stream of drawings, cartoons and works of art. All done with a grin as meditative mental therapy in an effort to hold onto what little remains of his sanity. Enjoy him while you can, he is the quintessential endangered species. Send RC a message either directly or using the Word Catalyst feedback form. For more from RCat visit the Word Catalyst archives or his online home.
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R.
C. Arquette, "RCat" to friends and fellow writers,
is an aging hippie and practicing curmudgeon. He was dragged
into the world, kicking and screaming, back in the middle of
the last century; 1950 to be exact. His outburst clearly showed
his disdain for reality at the earliest of stages. He grew up
living in the sub-tropical splendor of the "Sunshine State,"
Florida, US of A, where he attended Jr. College and after twenty
years received his AA degree; what can I say, life kept getting
in the way.
From The Attic
Truly Calhoun
Cheshire Cat
Songs of