I played Meet The Beatles a lot. What was it about them?
Back in the roadside diner, on the little black and white screen Ringo shook his head, his hair bobbed. The girls screamed. Paul wiggled and smiled. The girls screamed. John Lennon bobbed up and down, singing into the mike, thin-lipped. Each young girl called out her favorite “JOOHHHNNN!!! “”PAAAAUUUWWWLLL!!!”
“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 comer, weren’t so clean. And they didn’t smile either.
By 1965 an insolent and snarling voice sings, “There’s something happening here, but you don’t know what it is. Do you, Mr. Jones?”
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