Mona and I went to see a Beatle’s tribute band last week, and they were a lot of fun.
We didn’t go expecting to relive Beatlemania, we just wanted to sing and dance and enjoy the songs that have become such a part of our lives. The band we saw, Yesterday: The Beatles’ Tribute, gave us over two hours of solid cover versions, and everyone there had a great time and left happy.
They are on the web HERE. They’re worth seeing.
“There is nothing to do. Just be. Do nothing. Be. No climbing mountains and sitting in caves. I do not even say: ‘be yourself’, since you do not know yourself. Just be. Having seen that you are neither the ‘outer’ world of perceivables, nor the ‘inner’ world of thinkables, that you are neither body nor mind – just be.” ~– Sri Nisargadatta Maharaj
“There’s nothing you can do that can’t be done, nothing you can sing that can’t be sung, nothing you can say– but you can learn how to play the game. There’s nothing you can make that can’t be made, no one you can save that can’t be saved, nothing you can do– but you can learn how to be you in time.” ~Lennon/McCartney
“Don’t Pass Me By” first appeared on The Beatles (aka The White Album). On his latest album, Give More Love, Ringo Starr slowed it down and made it much, much better:
Interestingly, the Georgia Satellites took the same song, sped it up, and made it much, much better:
Full lyrics HERE.
Beatles Crossing Cam: LINK
“A hippie is supposed to be someone who becomes aware– you’re hip if you know what’s going on. But if you’re really hip, you don’t get involved with LSD and things like that. You see the potential that it has and the good that can come from it, but you also see that you don’t really need it.” ~George Harrison
I’ve never bought into the idea that you have to chemically alter yourself to see reality clearly.
I suppose everyone does what they have to do to clear the windows of perception, but using drugs to achieve it seems kind of like going after a fly with a sledgehammer: you’ll solve the problem, but there’s going to be some collateral damage.
In this excerpt from Rob Lowe’s autobiography, Stories I Only Tell My Friends ©2011, a teenage Rob Lowe finds himself alone with Francis Ford Coppola and brings up the obvious:
“Francis, I’m sure you hear this a lot, but Godfather was on in the hotel and we all watched it for the hundredth time. What an unbelievable movie.”
“You know, Rob, to me The Godfather is like that lamp,” he says, pointing. “It exists. It’s right there. People have opinions about it,” he continues mildly. “The real Godfather, for me, is the experience I had making it.”
It would be many years and many projects before I fully understood what he meant. If you are fortunate enough to be part of a hit, particularly a transcendent one, all emotional ownership is transferred to the audience. They judge it and embrace it; project their own hopes, dreams, and fears onto it; take their personal meaning from its themes, and with those investments it becomes theirs. The significance of your participation pales in comparison to the significance the project has on their imaginations. And so, you are left outside the phenomenon. Just as Paul McCartney can never experience the Beatles, Francis Ford Coppola can never experience The Godfather. It becomes a lamp.
I like this book a lot more than I expected to. I’m not a huge Rob Lowe fan, although I did enjoy him in Parks and Recreation, but it turns out you don’t have to be to enjoy his anecdotes and stories.