The Beatles. Peter Jackson’s “Get back,” the video documentary reliving the Fab Four’s live sessions during the making of their album “Let it be” -- it's all over the Internet, coming to Netflix.
The Beatles. I still carry the guilt of not cutting a high school class in 1964 (as three young ladies of my class did) to see the Beatles arrived at JFK airport, very close to our homes on Long Island. What a moment in time! It was all Kingston Trio and then, in what seemed like a matter of hours, it was all Beatles all the time, the British invasion most welcomed, from girlfriends with Beatles wallpaper and pajamas to the first sight of a guy with a Beatles haircut, to Aileen's basement for the almost continuous playing of their album “Meet the Beatles” to of course their appearance on Ed Sullivan, no screaming from us, just an awed reverence, too young to have really known the James Dean craze, with an indifference to Elvis and too suburban to know what Dylan and the Village coffeehouses were growing up, but we had them, growing up along with them, their music as soundtrack and sounding board, from our hair to our Vietnam war to our sex drugs and rock 'n roll, turning our world anew, to “Hard Day's Night” to “Help” to the “Yellow Submarine” which our Mexican weed allowed for over and over again viewing, to drifting along with “Rubber Soul” and “Revolver,” and to the unending bliss of “Sergeant Pepper,” this baby boomer now with the feeling of a certain privilege -- and those of us who arrived first, planted our “freak flag” and lasted through the Yoko and the breakup (we basically shrugged it all off -- stuff happens — to John's tragic death with John once something up the end of the Beatles on Dick Cavett -- “The Beatles breaking up was so tragic it led to Paul and George and Ringo making their own fine albums,” or words to that effect, their effect on all of us remains from then to everlasting. “Get back”? Uh, never left.
Only one regret. Why didn't they ever play live for us -- songs from “Rubber Soul” and “Revolver” -- not in a screaming stadium which wasn't going to happen again, their choice and my high school screamers were more grown-up -- but in say Carnegie Hall with a worldwide TV feed. “We were just 17” -- you know what I mean.