It’s been a little over a year since one of my all-time musical heroes joined the eternal recording session. RIP, old friend.
It seems so silly now, but as a kid growing up in sunny SoCal I had a dogged loyalty to our locally grown Beach Boys that required me to “hate” The Beatles, those foreigners with goofy haircuts. I was also absurdly jealous of the adoration they got. From, you know, girls. Duh. As if any other kind of adoration mattered.
Then I heard the opening chord of “A Hard Day’s Night” and I fell in love. I didn’t know it then, but the cupid behind my crush was an unassuming genius named George (eventually Sir George) Martin, the producer who relentlessly pushed the Beatles to try new things, including that impossibly addictive opening chord.
Like a knight, Sir George rescued the maiden Beatles from obscurity as “one-time pop idols,” dragging them off to his castle-slash-recording studio at Abbey Road, constantly insisting they push themselves beyond the easy to the unimagined, the untried. The immortal.
When Paul McCartney
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