That Time I Saw A Beatle

August 19, 2009: Cowboys Stadium, Arlington, TX

3..2..1…we have lift off…

My foot slammed the pedal to the floorboard. Like a space monkey revving for launch, the tires spun in place. When the rubber finally gripped the road, the car jerked into overdrive. The G-Force slammed me into the back of my seat. I was in the driver seat of a two-ton missile moving through hyperspace like the Millennium Falcon. Everything outside my windows was a blur. I was making a great time.

RED LIGHT, red light, red light!

My foot jumped to hit the brake on time. The wheels locked and skidded to a grinding halt mere inches from the rear bumper of another vehicle. I banged my hands against the steering wheel in a fit of rage.

“C’mon, c’mon, not now. I need a green light!” I said aloud.

I snapped my fingers like a magician, waved my hand like a Jedi, and even debated a deal with the devil. Anything to get this light to change colors. Alas, none of it worked.

Seconds ticked away like we were having fun. There was never enough time in the day, and I felt that more than ever now. Every second spent in the car was a second closer to my failure. Growing more frustrated at the frozen red light I rapped the steering wheel with my palm, “C’mon, c’mon!”

Red faded to black and black faded to green. I was 0 to 60 and shot off the mountain. Spinning out again and racing down the main drag, I weaved like grandma’s sewing kit. Expletives fired in quick succession as I shooed and waved off anyone and everyone in my way. An emergency? Probably not. But I need you to move!

Once on campus, I caught air on speed bumps and sent pedestrians flying to the safety of sidewalks. They would be flies on my windshield. I was a Gonzo in the desert. All these bats! Swinging my car in on two wheels, I was out and running before I even turned my vehicle off. This wasn’t the class to mess with, and I was poking the bull.

Running through the halls, the pattering of my feet echoed through the empty halls. I approached the classroom door, slammed to a halt, and composed myself. Deep breath in, deep breath out. I lowered my head and opened the door just wide enough to slide my body in.

I stepped into the blinding spotlight. The room was pitch black, save for the blinding projector in the back of the room. I was the unfunny comedian at the bad end of the spotlight. There was no hiding from its disapproving glare. When my eyes adjusted, I was greeted by the glazed stares of my peers. A fourth of the class was already in the books by the time I started navigating over backpacks along the dark path to my seat.

“Mr. Ingram, you’re late. What’s your reason,” the professor asked.

Should I try to explain the truth or feed him a little white lie? Say something about car troubles, or maybe there was a family emergency? What if you say you helped stop a robbery while grabbing some breakfast? What did it matter, the reality was I was late and the professor noticed. But, you know what they say though, the truth will set you free.

I’M GOING TO SEE PAUL MCCARTNEY IN CONCERT!

A beautiful lady in a yellow bikini approached from the other side of the pool. Through my sunglasses, I tried to play it cool and not watch her walking our way, but yeah, she was definitely coming towards us. She rounded the pool and stopped at the end of my beach chair. “Play it cool, play it cool, play it cool, man!” My body tensed in an attempt to get a little extra definition from the muscles I definitely didn’t have.

“What Phish show are you guys listening to,” she asked. Did I just die and go to heaven? This beauty wants to know what Phish show we’re listening to. We invited her to take a seat, talk some music and have a beer with us. Woo, summer is just the best!

It’s hard to imagine a better life than right now. Sitting poolside, sipping heady toppers, admiring the bikini-clad beauties, and listening to tunes with my buds. We slept till noon, sat poolside until dark and bro’d out until the wee hours of the night. This was peak summer in a college town. Yep, life couldn’t be any better.

[Mr. Ingram. Mr. Ingram. Mr. Ingram, explain yourself. Care to explain why you’re late?]

Except I wasn’t poolside nor was this the best summer. Rather than living my best life with the yellow bikini girl, I was wasting away in a dimly lit science lab every day. And the moments I wasn’t in the lab, I was buried in a geology book doing homework. The ever-present call of summer was the perfect distraction to tanking this course.

It was only one class, but this regularly scheduled five-month course was condensed into a four-week daily cram session. Aside from being an intensive, this class also found misery in a harsh attendance policy. Miss one class and it’s an automatic letter grade drop. Late to class, drop a plus to a minus.

“Mr. Ingram, you’re late. What’s your excuse,” the professor asked again.

Sorry, professor, I was going head-to-head with an evil corporate ticketing giant? Honesty’s great and all, but what did he want me to say? I overslept? My dog ate my homework?

“I’m sorry about that! I was having car trouble and had to be towed. I can show you the receipt if you’d like?”

There was no receipt. I just hoped he’d say no. Mama Gump always said a little white lie never hurt anyone.

His stare bore through me with the same enthusiasm as his students. We weren’t the only ones wasting the prime of our summer in this dreary space.

“In the 1960s, it was discovered that the Earth’s lithosphere, which includes the crust and rigid uppermost portion of the upper mantle, is separated into tectonic plates that move across the plastically deforming, solid, upper mantle, which is called the asthenosphere. This theory is supported by several types of observations, including seafloor spreading and the global distribution of mountain terrain and seismicity.”

What he determined as the truth, I don’t know. He probably thought I overslept, but the truth was, I’d been up for hours. Even woke up before my alarm. There was too much work to be done. Chrome, Safari, and Explorer. I used them all. Each browser had multiple screens open and even laid out two credit cards. This was clutch time. All the years of buying concert tickets were practice for this moment. Yeah, we’re talking about practice.

I watched the clock tick down. The seconds drew closer to the big moment. We’re in the endgame now, boys. It was like New Year’s Eve as I joined the count down aloud [do countdown]. When the ticker hit zero it was game time.

I refreshed all of my browsers with lightning speed. My mouse could hardly keep up with my clicks. Bots weren’t winning this time. My heart thudded in my chest with each mouse click. That sizzling summer heat outside was blaring through my bedroom window. Sweat gathered like puddles. C’mon, c’mon, Lady Luck shine on me today!

For a venue with more than 100,000 seats, it was stupidly difficult to get a seat. Well, let me rephrase that, the upper deck was bountiful. But I wasn’t interested in that. I actually want to see the stage.

While one browser was loading I’d jumped to another to see if I could get a better pull. Argh. Uppers again?! Side stage, c’mon! 200s, eh maybe. Stop with the 300 level nonsense. Again and again. Give me something good! No, the opposing end zone isn’t what I meant! Was I a fool for declining those 200s? Granted, I’d be a mile from the stage, but at least I’d be in the building.

But alas, the refresh of all refreshes happened. After nearly a quarter-hour of barbaric battle, I emerged from the pits victorious. I had slain the giant. Three seats in the lower bowl of AT&T Stadium in Dallas, Texas were on their way to my mailbox.

I’m going to see Paul McCartney. I’M GOING TO SEE PAUL MCCARTNEY IN CONCERT, BABY!

I am going to see a Beatle in concert. Not just the frontman of any band. This wasn’t like seeing Deep Purple’s third guitarist’s solo project. This was the Beatles, the holiest of holy rock bands. The Mount Rushmore of artists. The band that jumpstarted the musical endeavors of practically every future rock star. This is a band that everyone can point to as THE band.

And this wasn’t just any of the Beatles, this was one half of the mammoth songwriting duo, Lennon-McCartney. The penman of “Penny Lane,” “Let It Be,” “Hey Jude,” “Eleanor Rigby,” “Yesterday,” “Blackbird,” and to stop there feels criminal. The one Beatle whose popularity as a solo artist lasted longer than the group’s original run. The only surviving Beatle who could still sell out a venue of any size. Sir Paul McCartney was the torch-bearer for a new generation of Beatles fans and I was going to be in attendance.

Like all baby boomers, my parents grew up with the Beatles. For my mom, she was charmed by their boyish good looks and their catchy hooks about hand-holding and falling in love. For my dad, it was all about the rock ’n’ roll. There was nothing more cutting edge than the Beatles, except maybe the Stones, but that’s an argument for a different day. They were on the late end of the baby boomer generation but the Beatles touched everything. Their music, and following solo careers, were commonplace on their favorite radio stations growing up.

Then I came along, a teenager of the early aughts and absolutely obsessed with classic rock. It was the second wave of Beatlesmania and a daily blast of teenage nostalgia. The same music my dad grew up annoying his parents with, was seducing their teenager. Instead of saying that music was better in his day, the radio was a source of father-son bonding. My dad told me stories of seeing Peter Frampton and Heart in concert, and I ate up every second of it. He relished the chance to take his kid to see the music he grew up loving. Together, we saw artists like the Eagles, Bob Dylan, Tom Petty, and several other classic rock legends

And as great as it was to see these bands together, there was a painful reality to the shows. These acts could rarely compete with the vintage concert of yesteryear that I watched. My dad lived their prime and now I was vicariously living through him. Of all the legacy acts we saw together, I never walked away honestly thinking, “well, that’s the best show I’ve ever seen!” Always grateful but acknowledging that their prime days were well behind them. So as excited as I was about seeing a Beatle, I’d learned the hard way, it’s best to temper those expectations.

The stage lights drop. The house music zips quiet. It’s showtime. Cue the thunderous applause. Except, crickets.

Four blokes walk onto the stage. They strap into their instruments and start an intro worthy of a king’s entrance. The girl next to me starts screaming like this was her favorite band and she might take her top off. Most people didn’t even applaud though. I wasn’t even aware there was an opener. Who are these peons and what are you doing on Sir Paul’s stage?

“Welcome to the show, we’re the Script,” the singer announced.

The band’s presence was completely dwarfed by the endzone-sized stage and skyscraper-tall video screens. Opposing the stage, the sun’s golden hours rays tore into the stadium. It was like someone had left the lights on.

“We’re so very honored to share the stage with a true legend. I hope you’re ready for the greatest shows of your life tonight,” the Script singer told the audience.

The crowd roared with excitement.

C’mon man, really? Greatest show ever? The only greatest happening tonight is your case of pandering. There’s no way a 67-year old rockstar, entertaining the masses past his prime, could compete with the young dudes on the circuit. My eyes rolled so hard I could briefly see my brain. Give me a break, guy. I don’t care if that is a formal Beatle on the stage. Ain’t no chance it’s gonna be the best show ever.

Yes, I know what you’re saying. Paul has an undeniable legacy status. He’s a household name, no introduction needed, a living legend still walking the earth. Yada yada. But this was just blatant pandering. This wasn’t Beatlemania. There were no screaming fanatics. No one passed out from excitement and lust. No one squealed or swooned. These are different days. Let’s try to rein it in a little buddy.

But I gotta hand it to the guys in the Script. Sure, I thought they sucked, but their challenge was astronomical. How do you prime the audience for one of the Beatles?! There’s not a name that’s large enough to do that slot justice. The massive stones that it takes to even consider joining that bill is a propensity I’ll never know. Yet here we are. They faced the crowd, did their best, and elicited a few woo’s along the way. Their 45 minutes may have been better served had they just repeatedly yelled “are you ready for Paul McCartney.”

Every fan was out of their seat and screaming at the first note of the poppy bouncer “Drive My Car.” The show was on and apparently, Beatlesmania was in the air tonight. The crowd of Baby Boomers, Gen X, Millennials, and even Gen Z were all universally whipped into a frenzy. Grandpa had everyone besides themselves, but can you blame them? This was a Beatle! Not to mention, “Drive My Car” is a total bop.

Reverberating off the walls, I was hit by McCartney on all sides. It was one of the worst sounding rooms I’d ever been in. When the band ripped into the Wings megahit “Jet,” the echo chamber boomed like dropping a brick in a metal garbage can. From my seat, one ear was hearing notes before the other. This wasn’t a room built to compete with the Sydney Opera House. It was built for dudes in tights to slam their bodies into concussions while chasing the ole pigskin. But something about the terrible acoustics fit. It was like Shea Stadium. It was like the Sullivan show. It was every Beatles concert. The sound didn’t matter. We were in the presence of rock ’n’ roll royalty.

After “Jet” the band tore through the McCartney solo tunes “Only Mama Knows” and “Flaming Pie” before getting back to the good stuff, back to the Beatles. The McCartney solo songs were good but when they’re followed by songs like “The Long and Winding Road” and “Blackbird” they’re easily forgettable.

Hearing those Beatles’ songs live was like spinning Sgt. Pepper’s for the first time. These songs were just as relevant today as they were back then. They were the catchiest of pop songs. The most inspirational of rock songs. It was our first love and last heartbreak. The Beatles were tied to everything. Yet it wasn’t like anything we’d experienced before. No member of the crowd missed a chance to sing along. It was the largest choir I’d ever heard. Even the most begrudgingly stoic were out of their seats, dancing and singing along.

Paul bounced between solo hits and Beatles favorites. It was a tour of the greatest contributions to musical inspiration. The crowd cheerfully accepted the solo hits, but the Beatles songs were what the audience really wanted. There was something unexplainable about hearing these songs performed live by an original member. I’d heard these songs hundreds of times. The Beatles were staples of my CD collection. Regulars on my iPod and always a radio favorite. But when Paul sang “Eleanor Rigby” the significance of the performance hit me. This was the guy. These were the songs.

After finishing the frantic b-side rocker “I’m Down” McCartney exchanged his signature Hofner bass for a small ukulele. “This next song goes out to my old pal, George,” he said.

His left hand drifted back and forth but the notes barely emanated from the tiny instrument. The roar of the crowd was squelched to a perfect silence. Almost inaudible, the music was so quiet that the harsh reverberation of the room couldn’t pick it up. He stepped to the microphone, his trademark boyish wail morphed into a mellow whisper.

“Something in the way she moves,” Paul’s voice came over the speakers, scarcely heard over the tiny instrument.

The crowd’s silence was erased as they recognized the hit. It was back to being the world’s largest choir as the room illuminated to cell phones filming the moment. With each strum of the tiny ukulele, my chest grew tighter. My face was flush and my cheeks got puffy. There were too many emotions being registered. It was so beautiful. To be nearly 70, Paul’s voice was nailing the quiet authority of the song.

I’d heard this song countless times. As a guitar-obsessed teenager, I poured over George Harrison’s work. He was my favorite Beatle. At that moment, I remembered every time I ever heard this song. What it was like to hear Elvis cover it. What it was like to be in love and hear it. Then my vision got blurry and my nose began to drip. Before I even had a chance to put on a brave face, the song had completely swept over me. I tried to pull in a deep breath to compose myself but it was too little, too late. Warm droplets streamed down my face while I shifted in my seat to hide my embarrassment.

Openly weeping without the slightest understanding of why I cried until the very last note of the song. Like an erectile dysfunction commercial, I swear this had never happened before.

I’ve found solace in music throughout the majority of my life. It’s one of the first things I ever connected to. There’s always a song to fit every step of life. There’s always a song to take you to the place you want to go. It’s your best friend when you’re alone and it’s a companion that needs no explanation. But I had never been moved by a song to a physical reaction this strong.

I dabbed my face on my shirt sleeve and tried to hide the blubbery mess I’d become. The song was so beautiful. I’m not sure what that performance released, but since that night, I cry at almost every show. The beauty of the performance, the way live music brings people of all walks to a few hours of peace and community. Live music does what no other art can do. I guess you could say there was “something” about that moment.

Aside from “Live and Let Die,” from “Something” to the end of the show, through two encores and thirteen songs, it was all Beatles music. Each song was more important than the last. When McCartney stepped away from the microphone and led the crowd through an endless parade of “Nah, nah’s” it happened again. I could hear my mom’s voice singing along while the crowd waved their hands over their heads. I wanted to join the choir, but I choked on the lump in my throat. I couldn’t squeak out noise if I tried. The levee was ready to break again. It was all I could do to keep the waterworks inside.

Paul, what have you done to me, man?!

The confetti cannons were empty, the house lights were back on and the band had ducked the stage. It was time to go home. I couldn’t believe any of it. I just saw a Beatle, in concert! And he played “Day Tripper,” and “Yesterday” and “Let It Be.” The songs that shaped music as we know it, and they sounded…good, no, better than good, great!

Then I started thinking about all the songs that he didn’t play. “Dear Prudence,” “A Hard Day’s Night,” “Penny Lane,” and “I Want To Hold Your Hand.” And those were just the Paul songs!

When you hear the Beatles and their music in everyday life it’s easy to overlook their significance. Their music has become so common that I forget that their entire discography is essentially a greatest hits collection. Not to mention, Paul’s solo career isn’t mediocre by any stretch. Then when given the opportunity to hear these songs live, there’s a reason Beatlesmania was a very real thing. There was nothing like it before. And there will be nothing like it again.

As we exited the venue, I got several texts from my music-loving friends asking me how the show was. In this situation, it’s easy to overstate an instant reaction. Your adrenaline is pumping, you just heard your favorite songs and your eyes are still adjusting from the blinding lights. But I had no doubt in my mind. There wasn’t even a comparison. What do you know, maybe that Script singer knows a thing or two.

I unapologetically responded, “Best show ever.”