Christopher SchutziusI was too young when the Beatles broke up to feel it in real time. Having joined the faith ex post facto, I think I felt the breakup more keenly than my elders—at least they had been witness to Shea Stadium, The Ed Sullivan Show, and Sgt. Pepper.
I mean “faith” literally. It was a religion. Its central tenet was that the only way the world could be saved was if the Beatles got back together.
There were other apostles—the Rolling Stones, The Doors, The Who.
Dylan was also a god. Revered. Admired. Lofty. The greatest. But not a martyr.
We loved the Beatles.
They were the only hope.
Until December 8, 1980.
John Lennon was gone.
I memorized all of his lyrics. And then all of the Beatles. And all of Dylan’s. Plus dozens and dozens of other groups and singer-songwriters—Joni Mitchell, Carole King.
Then I dug back further into their influences—Woody Guthrie, John Hurt, Lead Belly.
And even further back to anyone they’d referenced—Rimbaud, Edgar Allan Poe, William Blake, and more.
I wasn’t unique—a lot of us did that. We weren’t noble or especially discerning—we lacked alternatives. There were perhaps fewer distractions back then. No internet. Only three TV channels with mostly mindless programs.
Perhaps because of my late adoption, I took it much further than others. I nearly always responded to even the most neutral questions with quotes.
“How you doing?”
“I’m stuck inside of Mobile with the Memphis Blues Again.”
“Can I borrow your ruler?”
“All you need is love.”
It didn’t matter if the quote was random or vaguely apropos—it was all based on mood, meter, or rhyme. Prose was to be avoided at any cost.
It did cost me.
A high school essay I wrote based on the Velvet Underground’s The Gift was dismissed as “immature.”
At university, on my third essay analyzing Don McLean’s American Pie, my professor wrote, “Diversify!”
He should have been teaching finance.
After college, my inattention to work led to several firings. Even at the bookstore job I was barely tolerated. I couldn’t put price tags on a complete box of incoming books without cracking one open. They relegated me to the business and self-help sections and kept me away from the fiction and poetry.
I should have been a musician myself, except that I have a terrible voice, can’t carry a tune, and never had the drive or ambition to read music or learn an instrument. In every other respect, I would have been perfect.
It wasn’t a total loss. There were others like me—still are.
After drifting through a few years, and a few careers, I met a woman who shared many of my sensibilities. Not all—she likes Paul the most; I am more of a John fan.
We are not wealthy, but we manage to pay the bills.
We have a daughter who just turned nine. She was born with Jacobsen Syndrome, a rare genetic disorder that has resulted in several developmental challenges. She doesn’t speak verbally, read, or write. She can make lovely and cheerful sounds and smiles constantly. She does cry, but her default mode is joyful.
We try to teach her sign language and use other visual communication devices, but progress has been slow- and certain difficulties may never be overcome- but it has occurred to me that she may never pronounce judgment, she may never yell in anger, and she may never tell a lie.
But she loves rhymes, and likes to listen to me read poetry or recite the lines I still remember. All the time I spent memorizing lyrics has proved useful.
Patsy loves music. All kinds.
She even likes my singing.
But I am not her favorite.
That would be the Beatles.Next Story →