For most of my childhood, I held a strong distaste for the Beatles. Growing up in the ’70s and ’80s, I frequently overheard my parents, radio hosts, and various adults engage in that age-old debate: which band was superior—the clean-cut Beatles or the rebellious Rolling Stones? Truthfully, I wasn’t particularly fond of either; both were merely “okay” in my eyes. During carpool rides, if my parents were at the wheel, we’d likely jam to “Sympathy for the Devil,” while my best friend’s mom would insist on a relentless loop of “I Want to Hold Your Hand.”
To me, both bands represented the music of an older generation—music that my parents cherished and reminisced about, often connecting it to their youthful experiences. My young mind found the Beatles’ melodies simplistic and jangly, though at least I could decipher their lyrics. “I’ll tell you something I think you’ll understand,” they sang, while Mick Jagger provocatively challenged listeners with “pleased to meet you, hope you guess my name.” Why would I need to guess? You’re Mick Jagger, a lanky figure whose stage presence was lost on me at the time.
My musical tastes leaned more towards Tears for Fears, Depeche Mode, and Madonna—artists who filled the playlists at school dances. Even in college, I felt out of place when conversations turned to the Beatles versus Stones debate after a few drinks. I grappled with the feeling of missing out on a fundamental piece of rock music, like a philistine who enjoys TV Guide but hasn’t cracked open a Dickens novel.
The root of my aversion, I suspect, was a lack of personal context. Everything changed when a boyfriend gifted me a used CD of Abbey Road. On a road trip, I finally began to connect with the Beatles. As we drove along I-95, his hand tapping the steering wheel, I let myself dream that I could be the “little darling” the song referred to. It wasn’t until years later, while living near Villefranche-sur-Mer—where the Stones recorded Exile on Main Street—that I grasped the allure of Mick and Keith’s iconic riffs.
What I needed were my own memories and experiences to forge a connection to the music. Now, as I reflect on the false dichotomy that had framed the Beatles and the Rolling Stones, I find solace in stepping away from that debate. I can appreciate both bands for their unique contributions without feeling pressured to choose sides. And honestly, I find myself leaning more towards Dylan anyway.
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In summary, my journey from disdain to appreciation for the Beatles reflects the importance of personal context and memory in music. It’s a reminder that our tastes can evolve and that we can find joy in the sounds that once eluded us.
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