I used to have a strong dislike for the Beatles.
As a kid during the ’70s and ’80s, I often heard adults—my parents, radio DJs, and various family friends—debate the classic question: which band was superior—the wholesome Beatles or the rebellious Rolling Stones? Truthfully, I wasn’t fond of the Stones either; neither band really captivated me. If my parents were driving, it was more likely we’d listen to “Sympathy for the Devil,” while a carpool with my best friend’s mom meant enduring the same 45 minutes of “I Want to Hold Your Hand” on repeat from her cassette tape, all while we sat in the vinyl bench seat of her station wagon.
The music from both groups felt distant, like it belonged to an older generation. It was the soundtrack of my parents’ youth, the songs they reminisced about during their first dates. My mom would debate passionately over who was more charming—Paul or John—or perhaps Mick? To my young mind, the Beatles seemed simplistic and jangly, yet at least their lyrics were understandable. “I’ll tell you something I think you’ll understand,” they sang, while Mick Jagger’s cryptic “pleased to meet you, hope you guess my name” left me bewildered. Why was I expected to guess? You’re Mick Jagger—a skinny, Gumby-like figure whose onstage antics were completely lost on me at that age.
My musical world revolved around bands like Tears for Fears and Madonna, artists who dominated the airwaves at school dances. Even through college, I struggled to connect with the ongoing Beatles versus Stones discussions that emerged after a few drinks. I felt inadequate for not appreciating the groups that were universally praised as the epitome of “great” music. It was as if I was a philistine who adored TV Guide but hadn’t delved into Dickens.
Reflecting on my aversion to the two bands that defined the 20th century, I realized I lacked a personal context for their music. It wasn’t until a boyfriend gifted me a used CD of Abbey Road during a road trip that I began to feel a connection to the Beatles. Listening to “Here Comes the Sun” transformed from a nursery rhyme into a personal anthem, with the billboards zooming past on I-95 and my boyfriend’s hand tapping the steering wheel. I dreamily imagined myself as the “little darling” in the song. Later, while living near Villefranche-sur-Mer, where the Stones recorded Exile on Main Street, I finally understood the allure of Mick and Keith and their magnetic riffs.
I needed my own experiences to create fond memories that would allow me to appreciate both the Beatles and the Rolling Stones. Now that I’m older, I recognize the false dichotomy surrounding the two bands. I am content to step back from the debate of who reigns supreme and to appreciate both for their unique contributions to music. And frankly, I’ve always had a soft spot for Dylan anyway.
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In summary, my journey from disdain to appreciation of the Beatles was tied to personal experiences that gave their music meaning. Understanding their impact on the cultural landscape allowed me to embrace both the Beatles and the Rolling Stones without needing to choose a side.