I used to be a firm non-fan of The Beatles. Growing up in the ‘70s and ‘80s, I was constantly caught in the crossfire of the age-old debate between my parents and various radio personalities: which band reigns supreme—the wholesome Beatles or the rebellious Rolling Stones? Honestly, I wasn’t really into either; both bands felt pretty mediocre to me. If it was my parents driving the carpool, we were likely to be listening to “Sympathy for the Devil.” But if my friend’s mom was behind the wheel, we’d endure the same 45 minutes of “I Want to Hold Your Hand” on repeat, all while wedged in the back of a station wagon.
To me, both The Beatles and The Stones were music from a bygone era—the “Land of the Olds.” Their songs felt like relics from my parents’ youth, filled with nostalgia for their first dates. The moms would passionately debate whether Paul or John was the heartthrob, or maybe it was Mick? My young mind found The Beatles’ sound overly simplistic and jangly, but at least their lyrics were easy to grasp. “I’ll tell you something I think you’ll understand,” they sang, while Mick’s lyrics left me puzzled, wondering why I had to guess his name. Come on, Mick, you’re the skinny guy with the wild moves—who wouldn’t know you?
My taste leaned more toward the sounds of Tears for Fears, The Human League, Depeche Mode, and Madonna—music that felt vibrant and current. Even through college, I struggled to join the discussions about The Beatles versus The Stones after a few drinks, feeling like a cultural outsider. Why couldn’t I appreciate the bands that everyone I admired claimed represented “real” music? It felt like being a philistine who adored TV Guide but had never cracked open a Dickens novel.
Looking back, I realize my aversion stemmed from a lack of context. Everything shifted when my boyfriend gifted me a used copy of Abbey Road during a road trip. As we listened, I began to feel a sense of ownership over the music. “Here Comes the Sun” transformed from a nursery school tune into a soundtrack for my own memories. With the highway billboards flashing by and his hand rhythmically tapping the steering wheel, I found myself daydreaming about being the “little darling” in the song.
Years later, while living near Villefranche-sur-Mer—the charming Riviera town where The Stones recorded Exile on Main Street—I finally grasped the allure of Mick and Keith and their infectious riffs. It was like putting on glasses for the first time. I realized I needed my own experiences to appreciate the magic of The Beatles and The Rolling Stones. Now that I’m older and wiser, I see that the divide between the two bands is artificial. I’m free to enjoy both without feeling beholden to any particular “camp.” And honestly, I might still prefer Dylan anyway!
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In summary, my journey to appreciating The Beatles taught me that music can often require personal context to truly resonate. No longer feeling pressured to pick sides, I now enjoy both their music and the Stones’, allowing me to embrace the full spectrum of rock history.