Growing up in the ’70s and ’80s, I had a strong dislike for the Beatles. Conversations among adults often revolved around the eternal debate: which band reigned supreme—the wholesome Beatles or the rebellious Rolling Stones? To be honest, I found both bands just mediocre. During carpool rides, if my parents were driving, we’d likely hear the Stones’ “Sympathy for the Devil.” On the other hand, a friend’s mom would play “I Want to Hold Your Hand” on repeat, and I’d be stuck in the backseat, trying to enjoy the endless loop.
For me, the music of both bands belonged to the “Land of the Olds.” It was the soundtrack of my parents’ youth, filled with nostalgia for their first crushes. I remember the debates my mom and her friends would have about who was cuter—Paul, John, or even Mick. My young mind found the Beatles overly simplistic, yet I could at least grasp their lyrics. They sang, “I’ll tell you something I think you’ll understand,” while Mick Jagger’s enigmatic “pleased to meet you, hope you guess my name” left me puzzled. Why should I have to guess? I knew who he was, a wiry figure whose stage presence was lost on my inexperienced ears.
My musical world revolved around bands like Tears for Fears, the Human League, Depeche Mode, and Madonna—artists that filled the playlists of school dances. Even in college, I felt out of place when friends brought up the Beatles versus Stones debate over a few drinks. I sensed a deficiency in my music appreciation; how could I not enjoy the groups that were universally acknowledged as icons of rock?
I believe my aversion stemmed from a lack of personal context. It wasn’t until a boyfriend gifted me a CD of Abbey Road during a road trip that I began to connect with the Beatles. Suddenly, “Here Comes the Sun” transformed from a nursery rhyme into a song filled with personal meaning, as I gazed out the window, imagining myself as the “little darling” the lyrics spoke to. Later, while living near Villefranche-sur-Mer, the picturesque town where the Stones crafted Exile on Main Street, I finally understood the allure of Mick and Keith’s timeless riffs.
I realized I needed my own memories to appreciate both the Beatles and the Rolling Stones, moving beyond the false dichotomy that had previously defined my perspective. Now, I feel liberated to enjoy both bands without feeling pressured to choose sides. Interestingly enough, I’ve come to prefer the music of Bob Dylan instead.
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In summary, my journey from disliking the Beatles to embracing their music reflects the importance of personal context and experience in shaping our tastes. I’ve learned to appreciate both the Beatles and the Rolling Stones for their unique contributions to music, while still having my own preferences.