Revolver

Struck by a tidal wave of pedantic fogeyness, I dug out the household copy of The Beatles' "Revolver," (no CD here, this was the musty LP from the 1960's, not even the other, remastered copy I bought in '87) and threw it on the ancient Realistic turntable from an old stereo my dad had set up in our garage in the 1980's. (Somehow, although I have lost every other possession I have ever owned prior to age 30, I have managed to drag this item along with me for the last 20 years).

Anyway I figured Revolver was as good a chapter as any to start our household infant out in the school of rock... not that pandering Jack Black comedy mind you, but the inevitable education she will pick up from ambient radio waves and tasteless peers if I don't attempt to intervene.

Let's face it-- most Beatles albums are a mixed bag at best. And yet I somehow recalled Revolver as being a flawless progression from one ironic, yet sing-able song to the next. Just the thing an infant needs... especially one that will scream unless held over your shoulder with one arm for long stretches of time each afternoon while you pace about, feeling the disks in your spine grinding together.

Upon re-listening, however, I had to conclude that, where Revolver is concerned, the other Beatles excessively indulged George Harrison. The record is littered with atonal, hippie-dippy Harrison-penned dirges like "Love You To" and "I Want to Tell You" that just absolutely wilt in comparison to thoroughly ass-kicking Lennon-McCartney numbers like "And Your Bird Can Sing." Now don't get me wrong, George had his moments, particularly in his solo career, when he finally got the hang of the whole pseudo-maharishi aesthetic with stuff like "My Sweet Lord." But back in the mid 60's, the guy was quite frankly still wearing his Huggies pull-ups, musically speaking,

I tried explaining this to the infant. "No one will admit this about George," I told her, "which I've always thought was weird. Why are we still being so polite about this 40 years after the fact?" The record on the whole kept her from screaming though, which was a vote of confidence that perhaps I had started her out on the right sonic foot. As an infant, I explained to her, I was marinated in the syrupy sounds of K-108 FM, the easy listenin' station from Sacramento CA, and thus at her age was cutting my musical teeth on stuff like "The Wreck of the Edmond Fitzgerald."

"You aught to thank me, really," I said, which prompted her to wreck her 1000th diaper by way of response.