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In my life

4 min read

This past Sunday was a special day for those of a certain age and musical persuasion: It marked the 50th anniversary of The Beatles’ lone appearance in Pittsburgh.

I was 15 at the time, and my parents didn’t allow me to attend the concert.

Still, I was excited, because seven months earlier, The Beatles changed my life forever.

When I saw The Beatles on “The Ed Sullivan Show” Sunday, Feb. 9, 1964, I had a religious epiphany that I have never again experienced. I knew Paul McCartney was playing for me. Only for me. By the time the song ended, I knew I was meant to play bass. I spent the remainder of 1964 pestering Mom for a bass guitar. She was always an easier touch than Dad, for whom all good music ended when Glenn Miller died. Sure enough, I returned home after school one afternoon in May 1965 to find a bass guitar outfit in the dining room. Mom purchased it using money she’d inherited from her father. She hadn’t told me (or Dad) she was doing so, but the smile on her face when I walked into the room told me she was nearly as excited as was I.

The timing was perfect. Since the summer of ’64, three friends and I were planning a group.

Denny, a drummer, recently wheedled a drum kit out of his father, and we recruited Jim and Mike as guitarists.

Equipment complete, The Sting Rays were ready to rock.

That summer, we practiced nearly every day in Denny’s basement.

So rare was the sight of a real, live rock band, that neighborhood girls – and some boys – sat in the basement, cheering and applauding after every song.

By late August, we added Frank on sax, but replaced Jim with Terry, Frank’s guitarist friend.

Bob, a friend of Terry’s, often came to our practices to watch, Bob said. But summer’s end brought the beginning of school, and our rehearsals became less frequent and our gigs fewer and farther between.

During Christmas break, I descended the stairs to Denny’s basement to find Bob standing in my place, bass in hand. Before I could speak, Denny said, “We’re quitting.”

Confused, I said, “You mean I’m fired?”

No, Denny said, his cheeks flushed. “We’re joining Bob.” Bob, Denny explained, could get the band gigs at Conneaut Lake Park. Almost 50 years later, I’m proud that in the history of music, I may be the only bass player whose band quit him rather than fire him.

When I told Mom what happened, she said, “Well, David, there’s plenty of fish in the sea.”

And she was right.

The Sting Rays broke up before the summer of 1966. I’m still playing bass every week in one band or another. I’m 50 years older, but when I play, I’m 15.

Denny, Terry, Frank and I worked in other bands together over the years, but not since 1969. After being out of touch for almost 50 years, I found Mike, Jim and Bob on Facebook. We may have gone our separate ways, but no one can ever take away the summer of ’65.

It’s difficult today to explain to anyone younger than 50 exactly how four “Lads from Liverpool” could have had such an effect on millions of lives, to drive home just how much power music had in those days. Today, kids take music for granted. We live in an era of downloadable, throwaway tunes that serve as little more than a soundtrack for texting while driving. Rock stars are famous not for writing and singing great songs, but for twerking in their underwear.

The Beatles were much more than musicians. They had style, humor and savoir faire. The Beatles rewrote the rules – not only of music, but of life itself. They changed forever the viable ways for young men and women to make a living. And not only that.

The Beatles were the light at the end of the pitch-black tunnel leading out of the JFK assassination, and they arrived just in time that cold February night. The Beatles saved music.

The Beatles gave a whole generation a voice and focus. The anti-war movement, the civil rights movement, the women’s movement – all stepped to the beat of “All You Need Is Love.”

The Beatles saved my life.

They saved all of us.

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