I would have screamed, at the Cavern, at the Coliseum. I would have hung on their every word. I would have breathed when they did, melted when they shot a knowing glance into the crowd.
I would have felt the triumph behind the self-consciously puppy-dog eyes as Paul crooned the song that started as ‘Scrambled eggs.” I would have camped outside his house, and listened with tear-starred eyes as he sang about blackbirds to a world fresh awakened. But he was too normal, too relentlessly up-beat.
I would have hung on the sensual fall of John’s newly Dylanesque voice on Ticket to Ride. I would have felt a hopeful hollowness in me when he revealed that Norwegian Wood was not about cannabis but an illicit affair. But he was too mean, too intellectual.
I would even have loved Ringo, a little.
But George. He was the quiet one. By slow inches he crept upon them, until even as the tight harmonies shattered and the beautiful, complex puzzle was smashed forever, he could say with such sweet simplicity that there was something in the way she moves.
I would have carved my name upon the wall, and maybe I would have got a call.