I’m reading Philip Roth.

I didn’t plan to, I’m not that big a fan. I found “American Pastoral” to be tedious. But I read the reviews of the filmed version of “Indignation” and I became intrigued. I’m a sucker for boy meets goy at small college in the fifties stories, especially when the protagonist is flummoxed and misunderstood.

But “Indignation” was only playing at the Landmark and the screening times were never right and I decided what the hell, I’ll read the book first.

I haven’t read that much Roth. But I loved “Goodbye Columbus.” How can a seminal film be so marginalized? It was Ali MacGraw’s debut. she’s remembered for the execrable “Love Story,” but playing Brenda Patimkin, that’s been forgotten.

But the novella was even better.

Even better than “Indignation.”

But “Indignation” blew my mind.

It started with the blow job.

You’re reading along, to the words of a septuagenarian. You expect dignity. This is not Jennifer Egan testing the limits of noveldom, this is an old hand proceeding forthrightly.

And then Marcus gets an unforeseen blow job and just can’t handle it.

What do they say, you never want your dreams to come true?

Anybody that interested in him, he wants nothing to do with.

So he ignores her and she ignores him and he becomes further infatuated, he can’t do his school work, all he wants to do is see her again, but she refrains.

He sends her letters…

Do you know the torture of being a red-blooded American male? Neither the techno-nerd nor the movie star? The movie star can get laid whenever he wants. The nerd holds his own, until his wealth allows him to penetrate a member of the opposite sex, sometimes the same sex, and be seen all over the media as triumphant. While the rest of us, in the middle…live in our heads.

Oh, if you could see inside. Into the men who never share, because it connotes weakness. You’d see the over-inflation, the feeling that Jennifer Aniston is just an ask away. And the incredible denigration, the belief that we’re not attractive to anyone and we’ll never get laid again.

So we plot. And we write. And we fantasize. And we think. And when someone deigns to actually like us, for us, we can’t believe it. After all, we don’t even like OURSELVES!

And then comes the famous eighteen minute scene. That’s what the reviews have focused on, one extended interaction between student and dean.

Do you fit in?

Maybe you do. But not me. Not only have I often felt to be the outsider, I’ve chafed at the system, I can recite countless times I got in trouble with the authorities.

Like the time I put my feet on the desk in law school. The professor challenged me, believing I was a sleeping doofus who had not done the reading. But when I asked him a question he couldn’t answer he kicked me out of class, told me to never come back.

But that was in L.A.

In Middlebury, Vermont… I was way out of my element. I went to a melting pot high school with plenty of Jews. I ended up at a college where 45% of the students went to prep school and they all thought studying was the highest calling of a student. Give me a break. What about skiing and music? No, got to go to the library.

I’m lucky I escaped. Sometime I’ll tell you the story.

But in “Indignation” the dean criticizes Marcus’s personality. Says there must be something wrong with him because he keeps changing rooms.

Has this ever happened to you? Where your whole being has been brought into question? How you live your life is seen as false, and you must change? They can break you these people, you’re the only one on your own team. And if you screw up and get kicked out what are you gonna tell your parents? Yes, even back then, when college was comparatively cheap, our parents slaved to pay for it. And they didn’t care what grades you got, as long as you stayed in.

In this case Marcus didn’t stay in. Because ultimately he told the dean…FUCK YOU!

Have you done this?

I have.

I don’t anymore. You lose. You have to learn how to play the game. Took me fifty years to realize that. My father never played the game, he taught us to do what was right, not to jump off the bridge just because everybody else did.

And “Indignation” closes with the remark that…

“…and thus have postponed learning what his uneducated father had been trying so hard to teach him all along: of the terrible, incomprehensible way one’s most banal, incidental, even comical choices, achieve the most disproportionate result.”

It’s true. Be yourself all the time, don’t calculate, swing for the fences.

And you’ll find yourself outside the stadium wondering who stole your glove.

Life is about not making mistakes. Ignore the words of the techies, all the hogwash about failure. The truth is America is a game and either you’ve got to stand outside it, which is almost impossible to do, or you’ve got to play it, by its rules. Permanent record indeed. What you’ve done in the past will come back to haunt you.

And I highly recommend “Indignation.” It’s short, not always easy to follow, but you’ll get there.

And I’ve yet to see the movie, it’s so hard to get out of the house, show up at the appointed time and slow down. Yes, even if I make it to the film I might be too antsy, thinking about business, about life, it’s not the seventies anymore, we’ve got the world at our fingertips, with our mobile devices, and it’s so hard to relax.

But I did start another Philip Roth book, “Sabbath’s Theater,” it’s much harder going.

I triangulated, I researched. Although hated as well as loved, people I trusted said this was the best of his late period work.

And Mickey Sabbath is a puppeteer in a bad marriage who can’t stop shtupping and fantasizing about his mistress, who is imperfect but exudes raw sexuality.

Those models, those famous people… They’re two-dimensional, they’re not really who guys have a hard-on for.

Guys go for the chubby ones. The voluptuous ones. The ones who can tie them in a knot, not the ones who haven’t eaten since last Tuesday. Can’t be thin enough? Then chances are you’re not getting laid enough.

Drenka is the wrong side of normal weight. And she’s got a very flat nose. But her curves, Mickey is obsessed.

And neither she nor he likes to screw their spouse.

Extramarital activity… It offends my sense of morality. But the truth is we only live once, and Mickey is over sixty and soon his functionality will decline and…

WHY NOT?

That’s not the school I come from. I come from the school of suffering, of duty. I bitch about the rules but I obey them. Totally messed up, I know, that’s why I go to the shrink. You’d think a rule-breaker like me would fit perfectly into our entrepreneurial society. But no, I want to win in the old world even though I am not fit.

And I’m trying to plow through “Sabbath’s Theater.” I have a pact with my Kindle, if I buy it, I finish it. But the book is hard going, despite the occasional titillation.

And then I read something so poignant, so right on, that I literally slapped my forehead with my palm, I saw myself in the book, my life became clear.

Sabbath and his goyishe wife are arguing, they’re on the verge of breaking up, after decades, and when Mickey’s wife tells him to stop shouting…

“‘Shouting is IRRATIONAL!’ she cried despairingly. ‘You cannot think straight if you’re shouting! Nor can I!'”

“‘Wrong! It’s only when I’m shouting that I BEGIN to think straight! It’s my rationality that makes me shout! Shouting is how a Jew THINKS THINGS THROUGH!'”

Whew!

Have you seen “Hannah and Her Sisters,” where Woody Allen falls in love with the beautiful goy Barbara Hershey (who in real life is Barbara Herzstein and JEWISH, talk about a mindbender…) There’s a dinner scene therein where everybody’s talking over each other.

That’s a Jewish family.

And many Jewish men go for shiksas because they want to avoid that, they want someone to listen to THEM, they want to escape from the craziness, they don’t want an authoritative balabusta to terrorize them.

But these non-Jewish women…

They’re terrorized by us.

Not a single girlfriend, and they’ve all been non-Jews, at least the long term ones, has not accused me of of shouting.

My father shouted. I never thought twice about it.

Now I’ve learned to be calm. But I feel like I’ve adjusted my personality, like the dean wanted Marcus to do. It’s not me.

But then I read this Philip Roth book and he gets it exactly right. The truth is when I am shouting I’M MY BEST SELF! The finest thinker. I don’t shout and stutter, I’m clear as a bell, I’m an orator on the dais, I’m laying it all out in an orderly fashion.

But the shiksas are horrified.

I’m trying to figure it all out.

Indignation

The first person I saw was Arianna Huffington.

On the east coast it’s the Hamptons.

On the west it’s Malibu.

And if you haven’t been to either, you’ve got no idea it’s even further over the top than you think it is, if you think of it at all.

Where I grew up, in Southern Connecticut, there was a ferry to Long Island. I never took it. The Hamptons were only a hop, skip and a jump away, but this is when you yearned to go to the Cape, Cod that is. The hoi polloi went to Hyannis. Yes, where the Kennedys were. I remember going there as a child and then right before I started college, just after I’d purchased the Moody Blues’ “A Question Of Balance.” In reality, this was the turning point, from credible to repetitive, but I didn’t know that yet, I hadn’t fully immersed myself in the LP, which was packed up back in CT, there were no iPods, never mind Walkmen. And I would have liked the record to keep me company, because it rained three and a half of the four days.

But it never rains in Southern California. Certainly not during the summer. Sure, happens every once in a while, but your odds of experiencing it are only slightly better than finding Bigfoot.

Now it used to be that Nobu was in a shopping center. A mess of buildings near the city center. But then it moved to the beach.

But the ocean is not the star.

Right next to the restaurant is a structure that’s been unable to find its way. It recently became a Soho House. Wanna know how someone’s a poseur? They go there. They don’t have their own house at the beach, they think the trappings make them fabulous. But the reason I mention the Soho House at all is now you can’t get into the parking lot. I’m stunned some techie hasn’t disrupted valet parking, the college-aged workers shuffling the Lamborghinis and the Porsches were completely flummoxed, we waited nearly half an hour to get out, and it wasn’t only us, Jeffrey Katzenberg had to wait quite a while for his Tesla.

So the first thing you encounter is the hangers-on. Impossibly thin women, not far beyond puberty, hanging with their scruffy boyfriends. That’s right, the more the women put on their look, the more casual the boys become. Then again, do these women really want to trade up? At Nobu, you go to be seen, your goal is to worm yourself inside. That’s L.A. In New York you cobble together a resume and work your prep school connections to get ahead. In L.A. you spice up your image, practice your line of b.s., and then go on duty.

But you can’t get close to the movers and shakers. Some of whom come with their bodyguards.

We had the best table in the restaurant, even better than Larry Ellison’s, and he owns the place. You see my dinner compatriot had done the manager a few favors, that’s how it works, even still in the music business.

But we were not household names.

Arianna and Larry were at the same table. Two away. And then I realized their dinner companion was David Mamet, he had his back to us, but I recognized his glasses and his square frame. And…I wanted to be there, to get in on that conversation.

I hate Arianna, she’s a tireless self-promoter. And I used to love Mamet, before he skewed to the right politically. Have you seen “House Of Games”? That’s enough to hang a career on. As for Larry? He earned it. That’s right, he started Oracle, hard to argue with that.

But I was becoming deflated.

Now it’s Nobu. Used to be Ma Maison. There have always been places you could see the stars, if not quite rub elbows with them. Which is a thrill if you grew up in the suburbs. The closest I ever came to a star back home is when I saw Bette Davis autographing books in Klein’s on the Westport strip. Nobody I grew up with was famous, and when I first moved to L.A. I’d go up and say hi. Now I know that’s a no-no and I never do.

But when you first get here you have dreams.

Forty years later I was confronted with the fact I’d never be an insider, I’d never get to the right table, I’d never hang with the famous names. Sure, I’ve met a bunch of musicians, but they no longer rule. And to tell you the truth, I always get uptight in the aftermath. They e-mail and they phone, exactly what am I supposed to say to them? It’s like the door has opened but I’m paralyzed, I can’t walk through, I don’t have the skill, to just be one of the guys, to be fabulous and use each other to get ahead, to bask in each other’s glory, I’m still just…nobody from nowhere, a gulf between me and them and wide as the Grand Canyon.

But then Justin Timberlake sat down next to us. With his bride Jessica Biel and the aforementioned Katzenberg and his wife. They could not have been closer, but they were still so far away.

I remember seeing JT when he was still in ‘N Sync. Now he’s a power player. How did he do this? What’s in his DNA, how did he become so comfortable in his own skin?

Michael Milken shuffled by to a seat close to the water but not so desirable. Sam Zell wasn’t quite in Siberia, but he didn’t have an A-table. Taylor Hawkins was behind us, but…I don’t think anybody recognized him.

Not that there were many looky-loos. If you were out on the patio on a Saturday night you were already someone, maybe just not enough of a someone. As for those inside and at the bar…the ones looking for their chance, never mind those on the deck outside, they couldn’t get close. Hell, as we waited for our cars a guy came up to Timberlake and started talking like they were best friends and Justin looked over his shoulder to his bodyguard and…

You don’t want to be this famous, you really don’t. With the paparazzi flashing their cameras at you as you get into your car. Yes, that happened, stardom is an eco-system.

As Arianna, Ellison and Mamet got up to leave I realized it was Rebecca Pidgeon whose back I’d been looking at, David’s wife, she was walking right by me and…

She’s Jasper’s cousin. I could have reached out and made the connection.

But I didn’t. She was in a bubble. Sashaying and smiling and…

I was so close yet so far away.

And Felice wondered why they even came.

To see and be seen.

Used to be different in NYC. The rich stayed separate. Now, despite flying private they like to take their victory laps, they like to strut amongst those less fortunate, to illustrate their power, to survey their domain and their place in it.

And if you live in L.A. or New York you know this.

If you don’t…

You’ve got no idea what’s going on.

Take some Trump and Bernie voters to Nobu on a Saturday night and there’d be spontaneous revolution. If the less than fortunate ever got to see how the other half lives… Not those housewives playacting at being wealthy on national television, but the truly rich movers and shakers… They wouldn’t be able to process it.

I’d like to tell you the food was bad.

That everybody looked worse in person.

That they were all jerks.

But the edibles were stupendous.

And everybody looked like their picture.

And when JT got up to say hi to the newly-arrived Jamie Foxx you told yourself…I wanna get me some of that.

But it kept being reinforced that I was too old, that I’d missed my chance.

P.S. Yes, you can put them down. Criticize their career path. State that you’re just as happy and they’ve got nothing over you. But they do. Celebrities rule. And put a recognizable face together with money and you influence the government, you tilt the playing field. And America is all about the dream, almost all of these people are self-made. So, when you’re confronted with the truth you wonder…what happened to me, how come I didn’t make it?

They met on Craigslist.

Simon Ward was already in his twenties and felt it was now or never, either he was a songwriter or he was not, you either start or you’re left behind, so far all he had was the name, which he’d posted on MySpace, that’s how far back the story goes.

And of the fifteen people who answered the ad three stuck. None of them professional musicians, all looking for a lark. Dave had been kicked out of his previous band. Isabel, the lone American, was attending college but ultimately heeded the call. And then, after fits and starts, the firing of a lame drummer, they ended up with this configuration of six nearly a decade ago, that’s right, it’s always a long term overnight success, you’re laboring in obscurity and then suddenly everybody knows your name and you’re flying all over the world and your dreams have come true and you can’t really believe it and you’re pinching yourself.

The band pestered publicist Joanne Setterington to take up their cause, she resisted, she’d never managed a band before, but ultimately she couldn’t resist.

And the second album was nominated for a Juno, that’s when they knew they were on the right track. But after recording the third LP Joanne contacted Daniel Glass who flew to T.O. and got it right away, he signed them. And no one works harder on his acts than Daniel Glass, after all, it’s HIS COMPANY!

And I know the single “Spirits,” who doesn’t? It’s got 50 million plays on Spotify, and 18 million views of the Vevo video and the song is on the radio but…

I wasn’t closed until today, when I saw them live.

First and foremost, they had no attitude, they introduced themselves in an earnest matter, and were forthcoming with their story. They’d come from Lindsay, a farm town, an hour and a half from Toronto, none had airs, they were your next door neighbors, the kids you played board games with in the basement during long winters.

But when they began to play and sing…

I was there for the soundcheck. And they were performing “We Don’t Know” which I suddenly did, that’s how you know something’s a winner, when you get it on the first listen, and I’d never listened to it before.

And when the show ultimately began…

I was stunned. Not only were they playing their own instruments and creating a cohesive sound, they all SANG! In this era of autotune we expect that everybody’s faking it, but when presented with authenticity, it resonates.

This show was fully acoustic. And therefore it reverberated in a way the recordings cannot. It was a quiet performance for a small audience, only a handful of songs, but I found my body swaying, I was grooving to the sounds, I could have listened all afternoon.

And sitting there, looking at the assembled multitude, I realized I was a good twenty years older than everybody in attendance. The music business has turned over, it’s a young person’s game now. Sure, the antiques are touring with their hits, but new music is owned by the youth, they know history but they want to make their own mark.

I wish you were there. They played “Spirits” and it was so intimate. But the winner was “We Don’t Know,” the one I’d seen them rehearse. Here’s a reasonable iteration:

The Strumbellas – We Don’t Know (Live) – YouTube

But the version I saw was even quieter, even more human, I was touched.

Credit the band for persevering.

Credit the manager for guiding them.

Credit the Canadian government for supporting them, how else can you keep a six person band on the road while they’re building their audience.

And credit Daniel Glass for finding excellence and bringing it to the world. Now, more than ever, you need a champion. Being good is not good enough. Being great is not good enough. You need a consigliere, who can navigate the waters, who can put you in front of the right people, who can leverage relationships so you get your best chance.

The Strumbellas have made it.

Let them be a beacon for you.

Revolver-Remastered – Spotify

I WANT TO TELL YOU

My favorite song on the album, didn’t used to be, but then…

My mother made me join the temple youth group, it was non-negotiable. And they sponsored an overnight to West Hartford where we’d hear Bo Diddley.

I’d skipped a grade, I looked young to begin with, I arrived at the house I was staying at and my host was visibly crestfallen, who was this shrimp? He wanted nothing to do with me and didn’t. And that left me flying solo at the gig, I knew no one, was younger than everyone and had no guide.

Bo Diddley played with his box guitar. But his music was just a bit too old for anybody to care. But the other band, a cover act, won the crowd, and the highlight was their cover of “I Want To Tell You.”

A minor cut I’d nearly ignored on the LP, I couldn’t wait to get home to play it over and over again.

The music saved me.

It still saves me today.

It’s all about the riff. I’d argue “I Want To Tell You” was the start of riff rock, then again, “You Really Got Me” and “Satisfaction” had come before. But the riff in “I Want To Tell You” was more lyrical and equally infectious. Riffs ruled for ten years thereafter, until disco came along and ultimately it became about beats. But the power of one guitar, plugged in and turned loud…you rule!

TAXMAN

Going from one George song to another…

George didn’t really get his due until “Something” on “Abbey Road.” Then “All Things Must Pass” was seen as the definitive solo package…and now he’s dead and his post-Beatles work has been forgotten, except, ironically, for the Traveling Wilburys.

The intro made it sound like the track was cut underwater. It was instantly accessible, but I was too young to pay taxes and couldn’t believe George was bitching about overpaying, everybody I knew was a liberal, taxes were good. But not in the U.K., not to George.

ELEANOR RIGBY

Ah, look at all the lonely people

It was as if Kanye cut “Respect” or “Sexual Healing.” “Eleanor Rigby” sounded nothing like what came before, from the Beatles or anybody else on the radio, and this was when Top Forty ruled, underground FM had not yet been hatched.

This was not only a revelation on the radio, you could sing along to it. What a concept.

YELLOW SUBMARINE

In the town where I was born lived a man who sailed to sea

I was at Boy Scout camp, on the Massachusetts/Connecticut border. In fact, when we went sailing, we crossed states. I spent four weeks there earning fifteen merit badges on my way to Eagle, something for my resume which didn’t pay any other dividends, today I see the Boy Scouts as a paramilitary organization, but back then…our troop met at the Rodeph Sholom, it was anything but edgy.

But Boy Scout camp could be.

I was in the provisional unit. That meant you came without your own troop. And we were completely unsupervised and some things happened there that scarred me forever. But “Yellow Submarine” was our anthem, we’d sing it as we marched from one location to another.

HERE, THERE AND EVERYWHERE

It was so warm and beautiful, sung by Paul McCartney. You just wanted to climb inside the record player, the tubes and the music would keep you warm.

For some reason I align this with “You’ve Got To Hide Your Love Away” even though “Here, There And Everywhere” is a Paul song and “You’ve Got To Hide Your Love Away” a John song, but…the Beatles broke through on poppiness, yet they cemented their place in the canon via meaning. They touched our hearts, made us feel human.

I’M ONLY SLEEPING

Speaking of John…

When I wake up early in the morning
Lift my head, I’m still yawning
When I’m in the middle of a dream
Stay in bed, float up stream

UP STREAM! Get that? Because in “Tomorrow Never Knows,” which closes the album, he’s going DOWN stream.

Everybody seems to think I’m lazy
I don’t mind, I think they’re crazy

And there’s the sixties ethos right there. Everybody today is so busy getting somewhere they have no time to contemplate life, there’s no meaning, just a pursuit of cash. But in the sixties, human development was everything. And being self-realized was more important than being rich. And John was emphasizing he was DIFFERENT! We were all so different, our parents were not our best friends, the corporations were the enemy, and despite getting lip-service hatred today, everybody wants to tie up with the company to dig into its deep pockets.

LOVE YOU TO

The precursor of “Within You Without You” on the follow-up record, 1967’s “Sgt. Pepper.” It was George Harrison who popularized the sitar, who brought eastern music to the west.

And in retrospect, it was Harrison who was the most alienated. Sure, Lennon protested, yet he wanted acceptance, but living in the shadow of Lennon and McCartney George seemed to think he was never entitled to, would never get the spotlight, so he expressed all the angst… George was the art kid in the basement, the older brother the parents pooh-poohed, but the one you really wanted to hang with, he marched to the beat of his own drummer, it was he you looked to for insight, he was the one you wanted to follow.

SHE SAID SHE SAID

She said
I know what it’s like to be dead

We may not have understood the tax references, but we all caught this lyric. The oldsters freaked out, suicide was not a subject to be discussed, everybody was the best and the brightest with a yellow brick road in front of them to prosperity. But then there were drugs and alternative lifestyles and…

When I was a boy, everything was right

Not exactly, but much more right than today.

I’ve got my freedom, I’m in charge of my own actions, but with all the options I don’t know where I want to go. I’m searching for meaning in a meaningless society. I want someone to follow but everybody’s sold out. And the younger generation feels the same way as I do, which is why Bernie Sanders got so much traction. Denigrate his policies all you want, but he never lied, he never sold out to the man, despite the commercialization of our society, the arts, it’s these true believers we want to believe in.

GOOD DAY SUNSHINE

Talk about a side opener…

That’s right, cut one side one had to immediately grab you, just ask the Stones. Cut one side two was the same, but it could have a twist, could be just a little bit different.

The magic is in the piano break, and the way the vocals kind of fall off a cliff at the end of the chorus. Never mind starting with the chorus, the Beatles were always breaking convention.

And “Good Day Sunshine” is only two minutes and eight seconds long. The fourteen track English version of “Revolver” is only thirty four minutes and forty three seconds long. Half a CD was good enough for the Beatles, why do today’s acts need to stretch out so much more? The medium definitely affected the art.

AND YOUR BIRD CAN SING

I’ll be round, I’ll be round

That’s the part we sang along to.

FOR NO ONE

We learned about life from records. They were not four minute boasts made to browbeat the listener into submission, they were not ditties made solely for bumping asses in the club, there was wisdom contained in the tracks. Why these young artists had so much wisdom, I don’t know. Maybe it was all the dues paid, in Hamburg, living life off the radar, collecting experiences instead of credits.

At this point I’d had two summer camp girlfriends. I knew about crushes, I knew about the pitter-patter in one’s heart that signified love. But I didn’t know about commitment and loss.

And in her eyes you see nothing
No sign of love behind the tears
Cried for no one
A love that should have lasted years

You’re cruising along and then it’s over, when you didn’t realize the end was coming.

She says that long ago she knew someone but now he’s gone
She doesn’t need him

Whew! She’s moved on, he didn’t see it coming.

The clavichord adds meaning.

As for the French horn… Unexpected, like the harp in the Beach Boys’ “Catch A Wave.” Limits were tested, constructed upon the building blocks of musical history.

DOCTOR ROBERT

Almost unheard back in ’66. It wasn’t on the Capitol release in the States. Whenever you went to someone’s house with the English album you spun it. It was a Dead Sea Scroll, so different from today when everything’s at our fingertips.

We knew it was about a doctor prescribing/injecting illicit stuff, we weren’t that out of it.

GOT TO GET YOU INTO MY LIFE

My warm feelings about this song were eviscerated when Capitol released it as a single ten years after the fact. Come on, the Beatles had been apart longer than they were together, at least in major recording terms. It was a complete dash for cash.

But when this was just an album track… It was a winner, because of George’s guitar, not so different from his playing as L’Angelo Misterioso on Cream’s “Badge,” and Paul’s over the top Little Richard vocalizations.

They could write, sing and play…and looked good to boot!

And you wonder why you can’t make it.

TOMORROW NEVER KNOWS

The piece de resistance.

Only three minutes long, but it plays like six, more like the Doors’ “The End” than “I Want To Hold Your Hand.”

This is when the band took a left turn, not only used the studio as an instrument, but jetted into the stratosphere intellectually, they’d left the audience behind, they were on their own journey, there was no pandering involved, you were either on the bus or off.

And we were on.

Turn off your mind, relax and float down stream

Imagine you told your parents you were gonna drop out of college and hitchhike to San Francisco with twenty dollars in your pocket.

Unimaginable today.

Today you’d get in the car your parents bought you with a credit card they provided to strike it rich in the Bay Area, calling mommy and daddy every day for support.

But the apron strings were loose in the sixties.

And the Beatles helped cut them.

Lay down all thoughts, surrender to the void

We’re not talking about laziness, we’re talking about embracing life, being about feeling first and foremost.

Yet you may see the meaning of within
It is being, it is being

What is life about? Look inside. You won’t find many answers, just an adventure.

Love is all and love is everyone

Don’t think about romantic love. This is about a cultural coming together. Being good, communicating with like-minded people, in this case everybody under thirty who was questioning society’s precepts. It was like today, but it was about expansion as opposed to contraction. Today people bitch about being left out, especially economically. Yesterday you bitched about the reins holding you back from being the real you, you rebelled against the shackles controlling your mind.

The sound of “Tomorrow Never Knows”… It was a veritable Coney Island of the mind. With everything including the kitchen sink thrown in, all held down by Ringo Starr’s rock solid drums.

We had few albums. Those we possessed were spun incessantly. I know every lick of “Revolver.” Whose reputation has gained in recent years, but back then was just seen as another step on the pathway to the breakthrough, “Sgt. Pepper,” which is belittled today.

“Revolver” was more aggressive, more in-your-face than its predecessor, “Rubber Soul.” It reflected the turbulent times. War and injustice run amok.

But what kept us together was our music.

We were addicted to the radio.

Some people bought singles.

Even fewer bought albums.

But it was “Revolver” even more than “Rubber Soul” that got the populace to purchase LPs. And when they heard “Tomorrow Never Knows” they were ready to pack their old kit bag, they were done with what they knew before, they wanted to run away and join the circus. Not the Grateful Dead, a sideshow far from the mainstream, but the biggest and baddest band in the land, which was completely uncompromised, which seemed to have unshackled itself from the system. And either you could be left behind or…

Get on board.

Tomorrow never knows.

Did you see Blake Krikorian died? He helped Jason Hirschhorn through his heart surgery and then died when his own heart failed.

John Lennon was coming back to the game after a half decade hejira and he was cut down at forty, an age in the distant rearview mirror of baby boomers.

Ringo’s still here. You can see him around town. He’s almost normal. But he’s seventy six.

Paul’s gone on a well-deserved victory lap. He went from inaccessible to available. He’s the world’s leading rock star, never forget it. And one day he and Ringo will be gone too and all we’ll be left with is the records.

They didn’t come out of thin air. They’d paid their dues. They were no one for years before they were someone. But how they rode the razor’s edge for an entire career, never faltering… It’s like winning the Super Bowl every damn year, to the point where you give up playing.

And the band did give up, playing that is. The public adulation was just too much, it was no longer living. Whereas being ensconced in the studio concocting gems was still a turn-on, the way out. And it was with “Revolver” that the band truly started testing limits. Helped, of course, by George Martin, but now he’s gone too.

It is believing
It is believing

We weren’t going anywhere fast. We were fumbling along, in school, with career dreams planted in our heads by our parents. And then along came four lads from Liverpool and our entire world was turned upside down, our consciousness was expanded, music became everything, not only a way to feel good, but a way out.

And in its wake came the major label infrastructure.

And the major touring infrastructure.

The Beatles were testing the limits and the business had to adjust.

And we were all along for the ride.

And what a ride it turned out to be. One that keeps going on. We just put on the music and relax and float down stream, we’re set free, we see the possibilities, we have hope, we soldier on.