As a child growing up in the 70s and 80s, I held a strong aversion to The Beatles. Conversations among adults—whether it was my parents, radio hosts, or family friends—often revolved around the timeless debate: which band was superior, the wholesome Beatles or the rebellious Rolling Stones? In truth, I didn’t have much affection for either group; both seemed merely adequate. During carpool rides, you were more likely to hear “Sympathy for the Devil” blaring from the speakers, or, if my best friend’s mom was behind the wheel, a relentless loop of “I Want to Hold Your Hand” would engulf us for an entire 45 minutes, with us nodding along on the vinyl seats of her station wagon.
The core issue with both bands was that their music felt like it belonged to a bygone era—music for the “old folks.” It was the soundtrack to my parents’ youth, songs they reminisced about while discussing their first romances. The debates among mothers about who was more charming, Paul or John—or even Mick—felt foreign to me. My young mind found The Beatles to be straightforward and jangly, and while I could grasp their lyrics, they seemed overly simplistic. “I’ll tell you something I think you’ll understand,” they sang, while Mick Jagger’s enigmatic proclamation of “pleased to meet you, hope you guess my name” left me puzzled. Why would I need to guess? You’re Mick Jagger, a rather lanky figure whose performance style was lost on my inexperienced ears.
My musical preferences leaned towards Tears for Fears, The Human League, Depeche Mode, and Madonna—artists who defined my school dance experience. Even through college, I struggled to engage in conversations about the Beatles versus Stones rivalry among friends over drinks. I felt a void in my appreciation for rock music. Why couldn’t I enjoy the bands that so many respected as epitomes of musical greatness? I felt like a cultural outsider, akin to someone who loves TV Guide but hasn’t read classic literature.
The root of my aversion to these iconic bands stemmed from a lack of personal context. It wasn’t until a boyfriend introduced me to a used CD of Abbey Road during a road trip that I began to feel a connection to The Beatles. As we drove down the highway, I experienced “Here Comes the Sun” in a new light, no longer just a nursery school tune. The scenery whizzing past on I-95, my boyfriend’s hand rhythmically tapping the steering wheel, and my imaginative musings of being the “little darling” mentioned in the song created a new emotional resonance.
Years later, when I resided near Villefranche-sur-Mer, a town where the Stones recorded Exile on Main Street, I finally understood the allure of Mick and Keith along with their captivating riffs. I needed my own memories and experiences to appreciate the brilliance of both The Beatles and The Rolling Stones. Now, as an adult, I recognize that the false dichotomy of choosing sides is exactly that—false. I find comfort in enjoying both bands for their unique contributions to music and feel relieved that I am not somehow incapable of appreciating these legendary figures in rock history. Ironically, I find myself leaning more towards Bob Dylan anyway.
In summary, my journey from disliking The Beatles to appreciating their music underscores the importance of personal context and experience in understanding cultural icons. By allowing myself to form my own memories and associations, I’ve learned to embrace the music that once felt distant.
Keyphrase: Overcoming Dislike for The Beatles
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