I adore the Beatles to this very day. There were gigantic fights around them. My vinyl albums were confiscated. Precious posters from an English pen pal were torn off the wall. In the end, my father in his under shorts lectured me so sternly about John Lennon. He never realized there were three other Beatles. He looked a bit like Lennon in his facial structure. I was a junior in high school and could not help myself. My father, the Witness idiot in his undershorts without a robe talking to his scapegoat vs. John Lennon, now the beloved of all age groups. The giggles started despite fear of a severe beating. I kept biting my lips but I just howled with laughter.
Sticky Fingers by the Stones was a challenge. I adored the WHO. Visiting their albums in the record store, I was sorely iintrigued by the pop art. How do I explain baked beans pouring forth to my mom? How do I explain a mammoth deoderant stick Daltrey used on his arm pit? We lived in Newark, NJ, not Andy Warhol's Factory (I would later live very near the spot). Tommy was the first WHO album I could bring home and pass inspection. She never asked what Tommy was about, even after hearing 1,000s of times.
Bobby Dylan was in a special category of worship. Near the Beatles but on a different plane. Lines like "someday the president of the United States must stand naked" which always led to huge cheers of approval in antiwar crowds caused embarassment. Later, when I was very ill, my mom, liberated, fought and arranged comp concert tickets from Paul McCartney and the WHO.
As an adult, I collect Beatles memoribilia. A rock concert is a spiritual encounter. It does not fail that I fear missing the performance. I go through mind games that I am entitled to what other people claim with no problem. Just being present I get a high from thumbing my nose at the WTS. When I miss a concert, I always feel some cosmic battle is ongoing. Living well is the best revenge. All the honors recently for my aging idols. Feature film documentaries. Putin receiving Paul and expressing his love of Beatle music. McCartney at the White House. Barack and Michelle smitten, knowing every little lyric. My father in his undershorts. Yea, life can be good.
I forgot minidresses during the Mary Quant stage. Outside of Manhattan's Greenwich Village, I was one of the first to wear bell bottoms and finely honed jeans. Dress signalled your musical taste and your stance on Viet Nam. Lovebeads. My grandmother seethed but my mom supported me. Strangely, my JW aunt, my mom's older sister, was a genuine Christian who followed every comma in the publications. She secretly met with my mom at this high level meeting and cried for me to have freedoms. The last person I expected begged for me to date, to go to dances, finish school. She saw it as compatible with the Witnesses. My mom had to do all sorts of transactions for her, particularly when she could have her husband do it. Teenage me just dismissed it at the time. It was very loving of her.
