Every explorer names his island Formosa, beautiful. To him it is beautiful because, being first, he has access to it and can see it for what it is. But to no one else is it ever as beautiful except the rare man who manages to recover it, who knows that it has to be recovered.
-- Walker Percy,
The Loss of the Creature
Mutiny. Ok, I'm not a goddamn Carnival Cruise liner captain. With no knowledge of seafaring, boy scouting, knot tying, or the compass, I land wearily upon my deserted heaven. Think about it, alone at last. Once the absolute pleasure, and sheer titillation of guaranteed peace and quiet wanes, then at last I might stop to take the time to ponder such life altering questions as this, the desert-island-disc enigma, and where's Kathy Lee?
Well, sitting down here writer to reader, let me just say that I'm shaken in my new, black, leathery-smelling Skechers by the idea of being left alone with only my music for company and my insanity for anticipating. Shall I ever survive a day longer without life's true pleasures: Big Apple pizzerias, Eponine's last breaths during "A Little Fall of Rain," spiked red pumps which anchor curvaceous legs to the floor, my Broadway Blue-shirts, addictive America Online, Mrs. Heineken in her ever-so masculine greenhouse, Larson's "La Vie Boheme," two-ply Charmin, Salinger's Caufield, and Mommy's London broil? And women. Ah yes, all the Christys, Maries, Carolyns, Alleys, and Alicias that once lay embedded in my heart, as well as my naughty fantasies. Can indecisive Chris realistically survive without this year's brown-eyed, Italian-complexioned, brunette-maned, princess? I mock you for acquiescing; just ask el mano derecha about that one.
And Sorry Nick Tosches (3), but Pindar's Odes (Chicago,
1947) and your concealed Leg Art (San Pedro, 1976) can be left
to deteriorate with the pungent lingering malodor in a rack beside
the white porcelain throne for all I care. In addition to every
college boy's necessary rations of Playboy and Letters to
Penthouse (hell, this is the stuff that wet dreams are made of),
no right-minded Mr. Westfall should ever be without The Catcher in
the Rye or Hugo's Les Miserables; God forbid he might one
day get through it. Two four six o one.
'Tis now the age of the CD. Yes we've gone from the record, to the
8-Track, to the cassette, to now this newest ambassador of pop
culture, but who remembers the ancient forms from the days of
yesteryear? Not I. Just ask a Bill Gates or a David Geffen for the
answer to that question. It's amazing how much we've come to love
this engraved, laser-basked wafer of color-reflecting,
melody-generating plastic. Just one question though: Did anyone
happen to bring extra batteries on their trek to Pleasure Island? I
seemed to have left them behind in the 'civilized' world (along with
my rationality and my Discman). And now -- Rosengarden please
--without further ado at 7:17 AM on the long end of a tough night,
and barring further digression, we jointly arrive at the task at
hand.
The compact disc (sorry Dad, vinyl's history) I would lug along is the Beatles' Blue Album, 1967-1970. And of course, this choice is not free from hesitation, and reconsideration. There's something about my inner thoughts, my Jimminy Cricket of integrity, which leaves that little taste of acidity in the back of my throat. Nevertheless, here we are, and here it is, yadda, yadda, yadda.
At first thought of solitude on Gilligan's Island, I would instinctively grab for something from my Broadway collection, namely my worn cast recording of RENT. It's had such an extreme impact on my college life, furthering both my acceptance and compassion for people from varying lifestyles, and laying the groundwork for my personal values and ideologies. It provides a medium through which to understand and discuss my life through character comparison; I'm very much a Roger Davis in my own right. I observe in his persona much of my inability to make romantic commitments, to live without regret, and to rid myself of the trivial (anti-happiness) cycles I tend to fall into. As my soul ascends to Jesus in the heavens above, "Musetta's Waltz" shall echo from the Pearly Gates. Thanks Puccini. But no matter how much I racked my brains attempting to put into words the emotions the music evokes in me, I was again and again just off -- well, let's just say I'd be more successful sucking a baseball through a garden hose. So participating in precision procrastination and hopeless concession I found the roots of a more easily explainable selection in the great institution on Rock and Roll.
I guess to be bitterly honest with everyone, it's not my most listened to type of music, but it's one that's as prevalent in American culture as baggy jeans or a Mickey D's restaurant. For most of us, R & R is the reverberating noise we listen to not realizing it's on, social wallpaper in a sense. Rock "started out to be a revolution against everything safe and smooth and processed" (Mark 22) but sometime between its origins and today, that unusual glamour of living out of a suitcase, of "traveling salesmanning" it so to speak (Lichenstein 90), has been forgotten or actually left untapped, the key lost in the raging waters of history. There are no longer broad-based innovators in this field of music; there are no more Beatles. This is Calcutta; Bohemia is dead.
Being from the generation of the late 90s, not the mid to late Sixties, I can't discuss, and have no desire to discuss, the Beatles' impact on the world at large. Petty details like why thousands of young men grew long hair and joined the Peace Corps, or why people went out and bought new stylish 'Beatle boots,' concern me about as much as yesterday's episode of General Hospital. Life can go on without it. I haven't experienced the thrill of first seeing the boys from Liverpool on Ed Sullivan. I wasn't at Shea. Shit, I've never even seen Beatlemania. I plaster my walls with Beatles posters and stock my shelves with their albums for one reason because I am attracted to their music and that alone.
The Beatles to me represent great performers performing great songs, sort of Zeuses atop Mount BBC. Their music moves me. Their melodic/harmonic as well as lyrical charm leave a deep impression on me, reminding me of the days of cruising Sunrise Highway with NY's 'Oldies Station,' CBS 101.1 FM, blaring from my speakers. It was John and the boys' innovation and new outlook on music, which distinguished them from all other performers. Not since their era has a group stretched the limits of collective talent as the Beatles did back in the Sixties. They had such versatility as a unit, far more than any other band at the time. Each member had a great deal to contribute artistically; each had a say in what went on behind the scenes. Three of the four band members wrote music, each sang lead during various songs, and they performed their own music; no interpretation mistakes were made. The Beatles were the essence of communication, of working as a team; each member generally called for absolute involvement by the others (Stokes 283). Arbitrators tackling multiyear, billion dollar sports contracts be gone.
The 'Fab Four' wrote songs with unrestrained fervor. In an interview the Beatles once said of their music, "our policy is this: as musical tastes change, we'll change." They found that US audiences "really go for the big beat, US Negro style" (McAleer 26), so they wrote and performed songs that way, following their tastes, using the public as an all-important barometer to weather their decisions. When America needed an uplifting surge in Rock & Roll, it was provided for; when an expressive anti-violence/pro-peace stand was ongoing, the Beatles provided for that need as well. They had this innate connection with the public, one that very few other performers were ever able to maintain; their composing style was forever changed by it.
The Beatles' early music consisted of straight four-man rock and roll, and it was awesome. There was something intimate about the simplicity of their music. The Beatles grew up through rock & roll, and by doing so defined it. Because of their deep mastery of the art, whatever they wrote or performed was considered rock, no matter how much it deviated from true rock and roll. "Yesterday" being a ballad with only acoustic instruments and string instruments was eventually considered rock, for the mere fact that it was a Beatles piece. "The Beatles were rock and roll or they were nothing. As such, they were, at their best, the best" (Marcus 185).
After looking at their early albums, it is obvious that the Beatles capitalized on their strengths, and were able to use their status in the world of music to transform rock and roll in ways other groups could not. The sound produced by these four men wailing away seldom was not spectacular, and it was this that allowed the group to use their talents to experiment. Once they built a foundation in rock, they were able stretch the limits of acceptability in music. They were able to insert unusual sounds and controversial topics.
The band saw itself as a palette; each member represented a single color necessary in painting the overall mural which was their music, though the galleries' walls of Van Goghs and Rembrandts were soon to be replaced by works of Dali and Picasso. They looked at the accepted conservative approach other musicians used during this time and did everything in their power not to perform like it. Where other groups chose soft, rolling lines of song as in the Ronettes' "Be My Baby," the Beatles were hard, loud, and determined as in "Sgt. Pepper." Where their contemporaries lived by socially acceptable themes for song -- love, marriage, sweet sixteens -- the Beatles chose topics to spark interest and imagination -- war, life in the USSR, and revolution. It is this cutting edge attitude, this new approach to their trade that draws me to the Beatles. In these actions of taking a stand, removing themselves from the normality of the day, and feeling free to lead the revolution of rock by example, I see much of myself and a great deal of who I wish to be. I always try to draw distinction to myself, to separate from the status quo, and the Beatles personify this ambition for me.
Somewhere around the time of this revolution, the Beatles started varying their use of electrical instruments, clips, and other peculiar inserts to create unheard of sounds in their music. There would be Indian guitar riffs in the middle of songs, Paul would decide he'd like to sing with a crackling voice and would neither speak nor warm up in order to achieve this rawness, and John would hear a noise on the street and believe it be beneficial to reproduce in their latest hit. Random huh? But it worked, and in such little sequential steps the Beatles altered the foundation of popular music.
"All You Need is Love" begins with overwhelming royal British horn wails; appropriate, as entire nations saluted these great performers, young women even going so far as to hail them as gods. It is such uncommon elements, the insertion of sounds not usually related to pop music, which give this four-man-band its charm. "Strawberry Fields Forever" begins with a mystical, airy, wavering flute foundation, backing up 'chubby,' individually standing chords wobbling around the keyboard of an electric piano. "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band" has an introduction of a bustling, anxious audience in a crowded auditorium, with a hint of instruments tuning in the far reaches of the background. This uneasiness is finally lifted, to the crowd's delight, by the diligent work of Ringo on the drums, with the bass guitar guiding a constant beat. The electric guitar jealously screeches out to become involved in the act until a raspy, yelling voice pierces through the instrumentation, which then transforms into a mode of support for the lyrics. Each one of these songs is linked by the defining Beatles' characteristic of individuality.
The Beatles were so great that the sounds their guitars made were even distinctive. I can't characterize it, very much in the way I can't explain why girls with cute little painted toenails drive me crazy or why the New York bagel reigns supreme, but the way the Beatles' guitars sing, both together and individually, make theirs a unique sound. Although electric, the guitar strums and riffs are clear and whiny simultaneously; they are not distorted by feedback like most. They sound youthful. Elated. Athletically thin. Aesthetically voluptuous. Is it possible for something to sound both acoustical and technologically altered at the same time? I don't know. It's one of life's funny mysteries I guess, sort of like how the person your bitching about always seems to be standing behind you as you do it. No one can explain it, and no one can mistake a Beatles' song for another performer's; their audible elegance is classic.
The Beatles had a rich, textured sound whenever they performed and whenever they recorded. The sounds of their instruments intermingled, cautiously overlapped. It was important to them that the sums of their songs were greater than the individual elements. Listen to Paul at the beginning of "Hey Jude," my personal favorite Beatles' song. He is so sure, his tone so steady. The background vocals of John, George, and Ringo just add to amplify his confidence by appearing so subtly out of nowhere. Their background vocal chords seem to let Paul know that whatever the stakes he may face, they will be there to support him, as true friends do.
In this hit, there is a layering effect amongst the instruments. The song starts out as just a crystal clear voice, which is then backed up with a full sounding, insistent piano line. Next is added the rhythm guitar, which strums delicately but purposefully in the background, the single tin-like rattling of the tambourine on down beats, and then the background chants of the band members. Lastly, the all-important bass and drums are exercised lightly. They are aware that their role is one of support, of exclamation. Each instrument is played passionately and intelligently; each can be heard with clarity on its own distinct level. Each has it's own place in the song, showcased successfully to complete the portrait of a band that dedicates itself to individuality but realizes the importance of each musical element. The Mona Lisa garnished with a treble clef indeed.
The Beatles convey the image of a bunch of neighborhood guys who love music, and love to perform it for their own pleasure even before that of their audience. This allows only for a better show, a better song. The group's enjoyment and excitement are inexplicably transferred into those of their loyal fans. It is this connection, this spark of magic which has allowed the 'Fab Four's' music to transcend generations, it is this enchantment that allows me to sit here and combat rhyme or reason, deprive myself of sleep, and with intense interest, enthusiastically conjure up an ending for this paper.
So as I lay my head upon this pillow, there are visions of my
Treasure Island, as well as that 'Babe-watch' girl Carmen Electra
dancing in my head. I shall fall asleep this morning happy and
satisfied, very much as I would imagine John, Paul, George, and Ringo
must had done on many a night before, basking in the intensity of
their accomplishments: "I get by with a little help from my
friends."
Works Cited
Lichenstein, Grace. "Desperado." Stranded: Rock and Roll for a Desert Island. Second Edition. New York: De Capo Press, 1996.
Marcus, Greil. "The Beatles." The Rolling Stone Illustrated
History of Rock & Roll. Jim Miller, ed. New York: Random
House, 1980.
Mark, M. " 'It's Too Late to Stop Now.'" Stranded: Rock and
Roll for a Desert Island. Second Edition. New York: De Capo
Press, 1996.
McAleer, Dave. The Fab British Rock 'N' Roll Invasion of
1964. New York: St. Martin's Press: 1994.
Stokes, Ward, and Ken Tucker. Rock of the Ages. New York:
Rolling Stone Press, 1986.
Tosches, Nick. " The Sea's Endless, Awful Rhythm & Me Without Even a Dirty Picture." Stranded: Rock and Roll for a Desert Island. Second Edition. New York: De Capo Press, 1996.