In the cold of January, fifty-plus years ago, I sat in a car full
of guys, my cased 16-gauge double-barrel in my hands, heading out to some
woodland to hunt. Rabbits? fox?--I don't remember.
I have no idea who else was in the car, but we were somewhere north and west of town—that I know. It was mid-winter, and the DJ on WOKY, Milwaukee, 920 on your am dial, was doling out fair warning that a new 45 the station was about to spin--"in just a little while," "coming up soon," "don't touch that dial"--was turning the world stark, raving mad, a tune cut by a red hot foursome called, oddly enough, “The Beatles.”
In the backseat of some guy’s car, holding a shotgun is where I heard the Beatles, a tune titled "I Want to Hold Your Hand.” It’s a memory forever alive with any replay of that old headliner, or its flip side, “She Loves Me”--yeah, yeah, yeah. It’s amazing how music carries us places, isn’t it?
I have no idea who else was in the car, but we were somewhere north and west of town—that I know. It was mid-winter, and the DJ on WOKY, Milwaukee, 920 on your am dial, was doling out fair warning that a new 45 the station was about to spin--"in just a little while," "coming up soon," "don't touch that dial"--was turning the world stark, raving mad, a tune cut by a red hot foursome called, oddly enough, “The Beatles.”
In the backseat of some guy’s car, holding a shotgun is where I heard the Beatles, a tune titled "I Want to Hold Your Hand.” It’s a memory forever alive with any replay of that old headliner, or its flip side, “She Loves Me”--yeah, yeah, yeah. It’s amazing how music carries us places, isn’t it?
I missed the Ed
Sullivan Show on Sunday night because we always went to church. But I was
16 in 1964, and I sure didn't miss group Brits called "the Bay-tils."
Today, fifty years ago, the Beatles released their epoch-making Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band album. That birthday puts me back in some kid’s car, listening to a tune the DJ claimed was going to change the world. His promo wasn’t miles off mark. Liverpool’s pride-and-joy created a sensation I bought into, even though my collection of Beatles albums is now (let me grab a Kleenex) long gone.
Today, fifty years ago, the Beatles released their epoch-making Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band album. That birthday puts me back in some kid’s car, listening to a tune the DJ claimed was going to change the world. His promo wasn’t miles off mark. Liverpool’s pride-and-joy created a sensation I bought into, even though my collection of Beatles albums is now (let me grab a Kleenex) long gone.
Just a year later I went with my parents to a rental cabin
somewhere around Shawno, Wisconsin, the last time I’d ever go along. Not that
far from that cabin, some girl—I know it was a girl because my imagination
created her—cranked up the volume on her hi-fi and played, “I’ll Be Back
Again,” often and loud enough to make a boy in a rental place just up the beach—me!
—want to be a man. While my parents and their friends poked marshmallows at a
campfire and sang “Trust and Obey,” I sat in the dark on the lakeshore,
listening to that lilting Lennon melody and falling in love with a girl I never
saw.
Just about exactly fifty years ago, while finishing my freshman year at Dordt College, I went to Palos Heights, Illinois, on a weekend, to visit a high school girlfriend who’d gone to Trinity Christian College when I went west to Iowa. On Saturday, I walked through an art show, where some Trinity kid used “Strawberry Fields Forever” as a backdrop for her work. Amid the paintings and drawings and sculptures, that sweet, tripping tune played over and over, most of the afternoon.
Just about exactly fifty years ago, while finishing my freshman year at Dordt College, I went to Palos Heights, Illinois, on a weekend, to visit a high school girlfriend who’d gone to Trinity Christian College when I went west to Iowa. On Saturday, I walked through an art show, where some Trinity kid used “Strawberry Fields Forever” as a backdrop for her work. Amid the paintings and drawings and sculptures, that sweet, tripping tune played over and over, most of the afternoon.
I was somewhat shocked to hear it, though I wouldn’t have told
anyone, certainly not my girlfriend. Something was brewing on that campus unlike
anything happening on ours, some force I thought took some delight in watching the consecrated piety
of my youth disappear in a rear-view mirror. That some kid at Trinity could air
tunes from an album smoking with references to dope seemed amazing. After all, that
kind of worldliness couldn’t have happened at Dordt in 1967, wouldn’t have, not
simply because the administration would have kept a lid on it, but because most
kids of parents like mine considered the whole Sgt. Pepper album some kind of sinful hippie hymnal.
I don’t remember anyone’s drawings from that Trinity art fest, but
when “Strawberry Fields” plays in my memory today—or “Penny Lane” “in my ears
and my eyes”—I’m brought back to an art show for reasons I’d never unpacked Sergeant Pepper's birthday.
Sometime in the 90s, the denomination of which I am a part, asked
me, neither a theologian nor a historian but a writer, to tell the story of the
Christian Reformed Church. When I tried, I found it helpful to talk about separate
wings of the denomination, pietists and Kuyperians, species of believers who
lugged distinct perspectives (a
useful old word) into the world God loves, at least if you pay heed to John
3:16.
Affix other names to those two lines of thinking if you’d like; after
all, we’re talking about a task at which all of us work every day. Some who
love a fortress mount an impenetrable defense; others come out the huddle and
go long, even when they’re playing on Strawberry Fields.
That Trinity art fest comes back today, a half-century later because
Sergeant Pepper created a forever image
when we negotiate the dilemma of being “in, but not of.” What blew me away that
day was not a girlfriend (the relationship died not long after), but my own
first sense—I was 19--of significant differences about how believers approach
life in the world.
For me at least, a child of the Sixties, memories haunt replays of
the Beatles all-time greats. But until last week I’d never thought about why
that Trinity moment plays so magically in my memory, why that particular spring
afternoon appears when those tunes arise from that goofy, flowery cover.
By the way, did you know “Strawberry Fields” was Lennon’s all-time
favorite? It was. I’m sure he had his reasons.
And I know mine.
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