I met Eddie Vedder in New York in 1991. Pearl Jam played at CBGB, the famous club on the Bowery, and I was lucky enough to be there. Our bands were signed to the same label, and Eddie’s luck—if we want to call it that—was leaving ours in the dust. He was being launched into a world of superstardom, and we were not. But our shared business got me into the show. There was a personal meet and greet—two bands there on the mean and dirty New York street. We shook hands and told a couple of war stories. But I doubt that the Seattle band cared about the New York band. They certainly wouldn’t remember.
Eddie was very short, though, superstar or not. That sticks with me because most of the folks in my band were well over six feet tall. We towered over the grunge master and his flannel shirt. I mention Eddie at the outset because it never seemed like he had much fun. Pearl Jam’s public stance, except for some crowd surfing, was very serious minded. And if I remember a single thing about Eddie, beyond a couple of good songs, it’s that in those years he was always complaining about how difficult it was to be famous, in interview after interview. At the time, I’d think, Sure, Eddie, why don’t you go back to pumping gas and see how that works for you?
The poor guy was miserable, though, and I wondered if he ever smiled. Eddie Vedder and the Pearl Jam boys held the weight of the world on their shoulders, and it was very heavy. You might have described their videos as sullen—sullen songs, sullen faces, sullen subject matter. And this is interesting to me because rock and roll, above all things, is supposed to be fun. Sure, I understand that whole socially conscious thing—wait, maybe I don’t.
Can you make me dance? Can you play a guitar solo that makes the hair on my forearms stand up? Will I smile when I sing your songs? Or want to turn the volume up? Those questions are more important to me when I listen to music, social consciousness be damned.
I recently saw something on Twitter, where some intellectual wondered if anyone was writing songs that would distill our times. I could almost hear the uppity accent and see the hand on the chin; thick glasses and a corduroy blazer: Who’s distilling our times in song?
My first thought was that anything that’s been distilled belongs in a bottle. And you might drink it while you listen to AC/DC. Or Van Halen. Or The Beatles.
My second thought? Though The Beatles were of their time, I don’t believe they ever tried to distill those times. In that attempt at distilling something, a certain magic might have been lost. No, The Beatles simply tried to write good songs. Great songs. Distillation wasn’t a factor when they recorded “She Loves You.” Or “Come Together.” Or “Birthday.” Hundreds of years from now, their music will be studied, and it will be called timeless.
But not because the Fabs were trying to distill the sociological moment they lived in.
And yes, the Fab Four cradled individuals who were socially conscious—we can’t deny that—but they left that stuff at the studio door, for the most part. The Beatles were intent on having fun. Even Paul McCartney has said it: the boys from Liverpool were always positive. They sang about love, and sullen wasn’t in their musical vocabulary.
Have you ever watched A Hard Day’s Night? If you have, you got the message. If you haven’t, well, maybe you should. The trailers for the forthcoming Beatles spectacular, Get Back—that’s right, a new Beatles film—are no different: those boys are having a blast at Twickenham Studios, circa 1969.
The world has long wanted The Beatles to be miserable that January, as they recorded Let it Be; more like Eddie Vedder, angry and bogged down with the weight of the world. But Peter Jackson’s film seems to slap that lie out of the passing lane and finally leave it in the dust.
Even as the band disintegrated in 1969, The Beatles laughed. A lot.
I’ve long been a student of The Beatles, since my age could be counted on one hand. I’ve read the books and turned the music over during countless listening sessions. I’ve examined the underbelly of their great songs on Russian bootlegs. What magic do the outtakes hold? And how much fun did they have in the studio? These questions, and all those years of study, lead to a long-held thesis of mine: The Beatles had more fun than anyone in history.
Sure, Babe Ruth hit 714 home runs and ate a lot of hot dogs—he barnstormed with Lou Gehrig, smoked countless cigars, and might make a claim to the top tier of fun-filled lives. I’d give him a close second. But Babe Ruth didn’t live through the whirlwind of the Beatles in 1964. The Ed Sullivan Show, that first American tour, screaming girls, making a damn movie, the recording studio, more screaming girls. And the humor that’s evident in everything they did. Everything.
In 1965 they filmed their second movie, Help! This seems almost too strange to be true, but new scenes were written for the movie, set in the Bahamas, simply because the four Liverpool lads wanted to go there. In a different part of the movie, they’re skiing in the Alps. And, well, girls. Always pretty girls.
It’s long been established that A Hard Day’s Night, which is in black and white, pretty much looks like a typical day in the Beatles’ nonfiction lives. What’s most amazing about the film is that it never seems dated. It holds the same timeless quality as the music. And more important, the movie is eighty-seven minutes long, and the joy is pervasive. All encompassing. You can’t help but feel good when you watch it.
I’d say it’s pretty good evidence for my theory. And so is everything else the Beatles did in the ancient 1960s. They approached everything with a positive attitude. The sociologists might try and figure out why and how the Beatles could have happened. It’s almost an impossible story, four working class boys who shook the entire world. They were newsworthy in a time when social media didn’t exist. A phenomenon.
I like to believe that it’s simply because they thought they could. And because they wanted to have a little fun, every day. Sure, they were swept along, and they got tired of touring, tired of the madness. But in that sweet beginning, they enjoyed every second. They had more fun than anyone in history.