“Aren’t those Beatles cute,” say the Moms.
“Paul’s my favorite,” says Sis.
Maybe even Dad likes them, though with some reservation. After all, there’s that hair. But then he would add, hopefully (perhaps remembering the fifties and juvenile delinquents),” Well, at least they’re clean.”
The Rolling Stones, just around the corner, weren’t so clean. And they didn’t smile either.
By 1965 an insolent and snarling voice would sing, “There’s something happening here, but you don’t know what it is. Do you, Mr. Jones?” FROM AN AMERICAN STORY
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