Forty-something years ago I was visiting my mother with my kids. My 20-year-old brother came home from Queens College with a copy of a new Beatles album under his arm—
Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. He was thrilled, ecstatic. I was puzzled. I listened to the lyrics. Of course, I’d heard the Beatles before. But these lyrics, they didn’t make sense. They were like poetry. I knew poetry. I was an English major after all. But poetry didn’t belong in popular songs. Popular music was “Maybelline” and “She’ll have fun, fun, fun till her Daddy takes her T-bird away.” You loved it, danced to it in high school, but once you graduated, you moved on to classical music or jazz or Broadway show tunes. Didn’t my kid brother know that? Was he stupid? No. He was a boomer.
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| Genuine hippie boomer |
Aaaw!
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