I used to own a small suit-cased record player like the one shown. I owned the 45 disc of Paperback Writer and wore that record out. The jaunty nature of the song contrasted with a driving beat grabbed ahold of my core, and six decades later hearing the Beatles’ astounding body of work reminds me of hearing it for the first time and being gobsmacked. My first pair of eyeglasses were round wired ones just like John’s. Shortly after John met his fate, I attended a memorial held on the top steps of the Philadelphia Art Museum. I sat under a giant billowing colored parachute and sang Give Peace a Chance with many dozens of others. All over the country, church bells rang in John’s honor at the same time. It was an overcast day, and when the bells began to ring in Philadelphia the skies were pierced by the sun and it took my breath away. For the members of the band, having such an unintended profound influence on young boys like me became a burden that in part led to its disbanding. What they have given all of us is despite that weight, everlasting.
