My story begins years back, one Sunday evening in February. Most of my mom’s side of the family are in the house. We bustle about, like 73 million other souls across the USA, waiting for the Beatles to do their thing on the Ed Sullivan show. It’s a very big deal. I was a couple of years away from the double digits, the youngest in the house, and the one who was the most excited about what was coming down the pike. Mom likes when Ed announces VIP audience members and makes them stand up and smile for the camera. Dad likes Topo Gigo, that cute little puppet mouse. I like the musical acts.
The hysteria begins seconds after Sullivan begins his intro of the Fab Four. Miraculously, the screams from those lucky girls in the tv studio audience are contained and we all hear the songs. The universe slowed down, the stars alligned, and my world was changed forever.
“Meet The Beatles” was the first album I ever bought with my own money. My mom patiently tolerated my emerging musical tastes; dad never did.. He believed his musical icons crushed my icons to dust and ridiculed most of my world during his lifetime. No gems from the girl groups, the Beatles, the Stones, the Brit invasion, the Beach Boys, the California sound, and the rest, pleased the man. A minor tragedy rectified only by gift he gave me, a strong appreciation of other types of music. His collection included lps from Dolly Parton, “Man of La Mancha”, “HMS Pinafore”, and precious 78s containing the classics. I scoffed at the time, but am forever grateful to his insistence that I listen.