The Beatles
Past Masters - Volumes One & Two

THE REVIEW

When I had the chance to buy them, in the early '90s, concerning the four boys from Liverpool, I could already consider myself a veteran. A spongy cloth soaked, saturated, drunk with them. I had in my ears the echo of frenzied screams, the hesitant curses of exhausted policemen, vocal cords in perpetual vibration, and my butt resting on the cold benches of the Shea Stadium with exhausted film rolls and magnesium stalled. On the pages of my recently lived life cycle, also to pay homage to the effective metaphor of a kind user, at least regarding my personal immersion in the vast universe of music, a lot had really been written.

Beyond the monumental classical compositions and a pinch of jazz, those pages, inexorably tending to yellow with the passing of time, had been branded by stones in free fall, fragmenting German dirigibles, doors of perception, revaluations of clear waters, underground velvets, flying pink pigs, beach dwellers, folk minstrels, birds, and roosters. Yet nothing had broken that enchantment, conquered that fortress. Nothing that had affected, even with the most powerful weapons at their disposal, the unbreakable armor of that quartet of English beetles.

At the time, the two albums were separated and marked by a very simple black cover for the rise period 1962-1965 and white for that of the consecration that included the second half of the sixties. Dissolution included. A double album that, in some ways, pissed me off when I think of some naive or rushed publication preferences, born from the good-natured and sometimes subservient production of good George Martin. How many times have the Beatles brushed against apotheosis? What if they had published on the official vinyl that track instead of that inane one? Why an annoying "Dizzy Miss Lizzy" and not a "Yes it is" after the immortal "Yesterday"? And a "She's a woman" to replace the dreadful "It's only love"? Why a frivolous quarrel with the homicidal tendencies of "Run for your life" and not an effective "We can work it out" or a robust "Day tripper"? And if acid rain had punched holes in souls on the roof of a greenhouse between a paperback writer and a lemonade? "Sharethsmowtsmeaness" Lennon would have said backwards to fuel the driving drops of that splendid mental state. On the white double album, then, that soporific revolution with a preliminary flavor and that inner light that would have dispensed wisdom contrary to a paternally hated Baroque nursery rhyme about a capricious court child. But how many times did they brush against apotheosis?

The rest is a sea of emotions, memories, with an anecdotal twist. From the first session of "Love me do" where good Ringo was grounded by an anonymous Andy White to the German versions of love anthems that would forever burn overseas hegemony. That not-so-bad German learned out of gratitude among the smoky, squalid walls of the Kaiserkeller in the era of "krauten und mignotten". And some hyper-professor transplanted to the States is still convinced that they were only capable of vomiting syrupy two-minute tunes. Between some unsuccessful remake of the inimitable Little Richard and a facsimile played with the elbow on the Hammond, we move on to the mature phase, the big bang. When the Beatles would stand out even without resorting to the army of singles or colorful coach trips. And that "Across the universe" on the allegretto andante fortunately overshadowed by the shadow of a better version recorded on their own. There's room for a bizarre composition too, in the year of confusion, reminiscent of the whimsical melodies of good Zappa. That repeated question on age matters where the beautiful bassist, disliked by the big mouth, participated on the sax. That blonde bob that shortly after would abandon those turbulent years on the tiled floor of a friendly sea.  

Even when they would greet the audience from the top of a gloomy day, immersed in women's fur coats and anti-whistle tights under the embarrassed gaze of helmets and the scorching look of the Japanese nag. For heaven's sake, let's go away. We don’t want to disturb anymore. We unplug the instruments and hang them on the wall for a while. Maybe. Even though actually I’ve prepared something on the farm, he in Canada, another in India, and yet another in the company of Peter Sellers.

On the horizon, the sun still shines. And those four insects will never be crushed.