“So let me introduce to you the act you’ve known for all these years…”

It was summertime. My best friend Will and I were going to meet some girls for dinner at a local dive. We were out of school, feeling alive, and were flying into the setting sun like a bat out of hell, the stereo blasting The White Album. Will and I were singing “Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da” at the top of our pathetic, untrained voices, and everything was alright.

At a young age my dad exposed me to these four guys from Liverpool. I was a little kid, essentially being forced to sit down in front of an old stereo as my dad popped in a worn cassette called Abbey Road saying, “You need to listen to this.” He was referring to the entire B side of the album, which runs eighteen minutes and would eventually become what I thought of as the greatest musical achievement of the 20th century. At the time, it didn’t mean too much to me: I didn’t like being told to acquire a taste for anything, and like many others I have to develop my personal taste at my own rate. But it did change how I would come to appreciate music, as had that crazy old man not been so enamored of rock and roll culture, I may never have really cared enough to look into The Beatles as I got older. But as it happened, I grew up and found a kind of “meaning of life” in rock music from the 60s and 70s, I began to recite the lyrics of “Yesterday” over rosaries and adhere religiously to the messages found in the gospels of John, Paul, George, and Ringo.

I went through high school spreading the gospel to whoever would listen. Going to a tiny, no-nothing institution with a graduating class of less than fifty people and not one of them knowing anything about anything, it was a hard-fought battle. Many of them sacrificed virgins at the alter of Chester Bennington and did pagan dances at the shrine of Mike Jones. They prayed to Amy Lee so that she might rain tears upon them and they could wallow in their unfounded self-pity and feel like someone understood their strife with parents or girls or whatever little problem they treated like the end of the world. Heathens, all of ‘em. There were a few of us who were enlightened, and we had to stick together—Weezer fans don’t understand the spiritual value of getting together to listen to Exile on Main Strait and argue about how it stacked up against Sgt. Pepper. How were David Bowie and Elton John related?* Dylan versus Neil Young. How The Clash kicked The Sex Pistols right in the teeth. These were the big questions— the important issues. But through all the discourse, the countless LPs spinning on the turntable, the long nights of vehemently arguing our points over Cokes and Twinkies and passing out in the early morning, one thing always remained certain to all of us: The Beatles were the best there ever was.

I’ve often been asked to explain why The Beatles are my favorite band. I’m always at a loss whenever this transpires, as the reasons are largely personal and don’t make for a very good argument. I suppose I could argue that they were masters of the art of music, or that their influence touched everyone that came after them, or that they expanded rock music into something infinitely larger, but none of that really matters. The real reason I love The Beatles more than any other band is because I grew up listening to them, and through those old songs I learned to appreciate what music could be. The poignant beauty of “Strawberry Fields Forever,” captured my imagination, “Yesterday” broke my heart before I was old enough to understand why, and “The Long and Winding Road” sent me off on some sort of existential journey I still haven’t finished. “Here Comes the Sun” always made me see nothing but the good in life; “Eleanor Rigby” always made me see nothing but the bad.

Listening to these songs nowadays, I realized that something there’s been lost. It’s not that they aren’t good anymore, but that they’re familiar now. I know every note, beat, and accidental: every subtlety and nuance. There aren’t any surprises anymore. I remember listening all those years ago, not knowing what was coming next, constantly being taken offguard by something new and wonderful. I’ll never be able to get back the feeling of uncovering my favorite music for the first time. The joy of discovery is gone.

This year for Christmas I got a copy of Love, the new Beatles compilation/remix/mashup album. I was wary of it at first—why would you screw with perfection? But I gave it a listen, and I was captivated. I knew the songs, but they were different now. The changes made to the originals actually worked quite well, and although they weren’t necessarily better than the older versions, they were new—for the first time in years, I felt the old joy of being surprised by The Beatles. I listened to that CD over and over for weeks. I know all the nuances again.

In early January this year, my friend Chase and I were cruising around the town in his Mustang. We blasted Love at an obscene volume, both enthralled by rediscovery. As we were cruising off into the moonlight, I was back in the good ol’ days—driving off to nowhere with nothing to do but get lost in the music. And everything was alright.

And as long as I can listen to those four guys from Liverpool, everything always will be. It was as true that winter evening as it was that summer day, even after so much time had passed. There we were, flying off into the cold night and crying at the top of our voices, “Get back! Yeah, get back! Get back to where you once belonged!”

*The answer is “Lady Stardust.”