I was taking a walk the other night when a song came through my earbuds and though I’d heard the song a thousand times prior, it struck me like never before. I was surprised by the suddenness and strength of my reaction and the resulting lump in my throat. Not that I was surprised that a song could affect me so forcefully; music has that sort of power and sway, but why this song and why now? I’ve noticed that as I grow older my emotions seem to get the better of me. Like Jimmy Stewart reading a poem about his dog on Carson or Spencer Tracy’s speech in Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner, memory and feeling become more precious and intensify with age. I think it was the clarity of the earbuds and the brisk dark night that revealed the song in a way I had never before noticed. The song was Things We Said Today by The Beatles. A song so good and pure that if The Beatles had merely been one hit wonders, this song would today still stand out as a classic of the era and their names would have been forever synonymous with it, like Gerry and The Pacemakers with Ferry Across The Mersey. But The Beatles as we know were no one hit wonders; they did it again and again and again.

Suddenly in my head, Things We Said Today became an allegory for every emotion of joy, pain, love and loss that The Beatle’s music has provided me over the years. Aside from family I can’t think of any relationship that has been as constant and impactful in my life as has been my relationship with The Beatles. From the inevitable moment of discovery as a child of the 60’s and 70’s, to my full immersion in their catalogue in my early teens, working backwards from their blue and red retrospective albums, to my first purchase of the magical new format of compact disc in the form of HELP!, to the playlists on my iPod and finally full circle to again purchasing fresh new vinyl rereleases, The Beatles have been a lasting and soothing soundtrack playing in the background. So what was it I heard in this perfect, innocuous, tossed off B-side ballad that I had never heard before? It’s actually what I thought I heard but didn’t, that affected me.

The album A Hard Day’s Night is comprised of songs written for the film of the same name, not all of which were included. Side one features the seven songs that ended up being featured in the movie and side two consist of six more that weren’t. Things We Said Today is the third song on side two. The album was recorded at a time when John Lennon was still squarely the leader and driving force of the band. A Hard Day’s Night is practically a Lennon solo album with remaining Beatles backing. Of the thirteen songs total, John sings the lead on nine of them and although every song on the album is attributed to Lennon/McCartney, as was their practice, John wrote most of these songs himself. Together he and Paul gave I’m Happy Just to Dance With You to George, as he had not quite yet come into his own as a songwriter. The remaining three, Can’t Buy Me Love, And I Love Her and Things We Said Today are McCartney’s compositions and contribution. Paul would eventually usurp John as the leader of the group, at least as the driving productive force, when the slog of fame, the cynicism of the “bigger than Jesus” business and Yoko helped John grow evermore weary and disinterested in being a Beatle.

John’s distinctive high pleading is all over the album and really stands out on I Should Have Known Better accompanied by his benign rhythmic playing and infectious harp. The way he phrases the line “shoulda realized a lotta things before” as if it were all one word, George’s concise ringing Rickenbacker solo on top of Paul and Ringo’s solid backbeat make the overall experience a joyous one. The beauty of the Beatles lies in their perfection and complexity on even the simplest of songs. The familiarity of their work makes one prone to assumption but upon delving deeper many of those assumptions are obliterated. I was certain, that while listening to the foreboding and melancholy mastery of Things We Said Today, that it was John harmonizing with Paul on the verses, “Someday when we’re dreaming…” I was certain that I even detected John’s nasal tone and that’s when it struck me that what I was listening to was The Beatles in the year 2017. This song, written and recorded in 1964, a year prior to my birth, suddenly encapsulated the living remains and fading physical presence of The Beatles. Here was Paul with his fluid and husky voice still intact while John was under the surface, a diminished whisper of a memory. I listened hard, replayed and gasped at the duration of the void left behind with the passing of John and George. Good God, John Lennon is quickly approaching the point where he will have been dead for more years than he lived! Hard to reconcile when his being is still so fresh and relevant to my own existence. Could it also be 16 years since George left his body behind for a higher spiritual plane? How on earth did my life fast forward from me watching him duet with Paul Simon on Saturday Night Live all those years ago, to now. It happened in the blink of an eye.

Listening deeper made me question my certainty. Was that really John singing harmony or was it maybe George? A little research revealed that it was neither. Paul’s vocal was double and triple tracked throughout the song so what we’re really hearing is Paul harmonizing with himself. Not at all an unusual occurrence on any number of Beatles tracks. George however did sing the harmony when they performed the song live in concert. John’s great contribution to the song aside from rhythm guitar throughout, is the forceful, taut da-da-dum, that opens, repeats briefly and with fierce finality concludes the song with five more startling strokes, or was it six? No matter, the song is over and those final flourishes echo like distant gunshots, lending an ominous chill to the warmth of Paul’s future memory, “Someday when I’m lonely, wishing you weren’t so far away, then I will remember, things we said today” John is gone. George is gone. Paul and Ringo carry on.

I was fifteen years old, thoroughly drenched and drunk on the Beatles and at the apex of my fandom on the night John Lennon was killed. Acerbic is how he was often defined. Witty and irreverent and a bit snide was how I viewed him. No wonder he appealed so greatly to my surly teenage rebellious side. I still don’t understand it. I can appreciate desperation and muster empathy regarding mental illness. I can accept if not embrace a world where guns and violence will never not exist. I can even reconcile my cynicism and my inability to imagine all the people living life in peace. What I’ve never been able to understand is why people who bring immeasurable joy and comfort should be wrenched from us so violently and indiscriminately. I’m not just talking about John’s murder and George’s cancer; I’m talking about the very good people in our personal lives that leave us far too soon. War, hate, death; we do it so naturally. We build industries and economies around it when (and you may say I’m a dreamer), all we need is love.

If you’d like to experience the true and lasting joy that the Beatles are capable of rendering, absent my weeping recollection, listen to John and Paul actually harmonizing on If I Fell. The performance on record is essentially a live take with the two of them simultaneously singing into one microphone with a double track of John layered on top. Their voices flow like perfect penmanship, rising, falling and blending seamlessly. Or watch one of several grainy live performances on YouTube of Things We Said Today. Watch and wait for that aggressive switch from A minor to A major after the second and third verses and witness the reaction of the crowd. Their cries raise the roof and tears begin to flow for no other reason than Paul letting out a little yelp as the boys jump and jam through the bridge. It is pure love; fab and gear and manic.

Thrift store purchased copy of A Hard Day’s Night soundtrack resplendent with a young fan’s longings.