Remembering

I was still young. Alive in my excited youth, full of sensation and eagerness and anticipation. I was fresh out of college and had yet to experience the repeated beat-downs of economic downturns and jobs that turned on the whim of share price valuation-obssessed CFOs.

A buddy and I were enjoying a late-night snack at McDonald's, back when their french fries were still fried in beef fat and were amongst the best in the land. Flipping through the radio, we became aware of something unusual: every rock station in town (which, counting oldies stations, numbered at that time about a dozen) was playing Beatles' songs.

Only a decade after their messy break-up, it wasn't at all unusual to hear their music on a couple of stations simultaneously. But a dozen? Still naive in the ways of mass-market media, we looked at each other, confused.

Then it hit us: something bad had happened.

There was a chill.

Brian Epstein had already passed. George Martin's passing wouldn't provoke this type of tribute. What else could it be?

A few seconds on the unmodulated side of the frequency spectrum (in other words, one of those AM all-news-all-the-time stations) told us what we didn't want to hear: John was dead.

The horrors of the Lennon's return from a recording studio and their fatal encounter with a deeply disturbed young man unfolded over the radio and I fell into a deep, morose silence.

An emotionally rugged childhood had been made bearable by the light of the Beatles, and the fact that one of them was dead was inconceivable. Like the the one ten years earlier that maintained they no longer existed.

Had I been alone, I would have cried.

In succeeding weeks an avalanche of stories and tributes and remembrances came pouring out. Far and away the most-chilling of them was a photograph in Time magazine of Lennon signing an autograph for the man who would kill him.

A brave, funny and sometimes acerbic soul had been shattered. One of the most-unflinching, plaintive, authentic and unvarnished voices in rock music had been stilled.

Listen sometime to the Beatles' cover of the Miracles' You Really Got a Hold on Me. Or You Can't Do That. You've Got to Hide Your Love Away. Norwegian Wood (This Bird Has Flown). Or Across the Universe, Mother, Jealous Guy and Instant Karma.

The voice never faltered. Only our widespread embrace of firearms did.

 

Here, There and Everywhere

I’ve been fortunate to have drunk deeply from the cup of travel.

True, I’ve never strolled down the Champs Elysees nor wandered the market stalls of Marrakech. I’ve never laid eyes upon Milford Sound or walked beneath the orange trees on the tiled sidewalks of Seville.

But I’ve been to Pioche, Nevada. Holly Springs, Mississippi. Sublette, Kansas and Leadville, Colorado. Woken up in the green cathedral of the North Cascades. Shared the view from Hurricane Ridge with a grazing doe at sunset. And escorted a tarantula across a parking lot in Guadalupe Mountains National Park.

I’ve gazed in awe at an arm of the Milky Way from the 3AM darkness of eastern Tennessee. Heard the paper on my cigarette burn amid the utter stillness of El Malpais National Monument. Drunk chicory coffee and eaten powdered sugar-covered beignets at the Café du Monde in New Orleans.

I’ve been rendered speechless by St. Mary’s Lake in Glacier National Park. Struck dumb by Monument Valley. And cowed by the looming shadow of Mt. Rainier at dusk. I’ve smelled the deep, rich earth of Iowa after a rainstorm, tasted the barbeque of Memphis and Kansas City and wondered at the colors and shapes of Bryce Canyon.

I’ve climbed Mount Taylor and raced an approaching thunderstorm to its treeline. I’ve explored miles of volcanic plumbing at Craters of the Moon National Monument and unimaginable formations at Carlsbad Caverns. Been the sole visitor at Mount Rushmore and part of the throng at Old Faithful.

I’ve sat on the porch of the Wortley Hotel in complete contentment. Pondered the Sonoran Desert after a spring rain. Spent two days in Bismarck, North Dakota stranded by a faulty brake caliper. And one in Livingston, Montana owing to an expired alternator.

I’ve been awakened by high tide washing underneath and around the car my friends and I fell asleep in after a youthful drinking binge on Padre Island. Learned the meaning of eternity on a drive from El Paso to San Antonio. Woken shivering on the Fourth of July. And eaten a Mexican dinner after a day of hiking at Arches that was as enormous as it was delicious.

I’ve seen the purple mountain’s majesty along US-93 in Nevada, and the amber waves of grain in Kansas.

Yes, life is sweet.

Yet these memories are a two-edged sword; knowing what life can be makes it painful when it is something less. The more constrained I become, the more I need a steering wheel in my hands and unseen sights in my eyes.

09/09/09

If you are any kind of music fan, you likely know what’s coming on that date: the release of newly-remastered editions of the thirteen original Beatles albums, plus a two-disc version of Past Masters, a remarkable collection of tracks released only as singles or on EPs.

When they were last remastered twenty-two years ago, Sgt. Pepper was just twenty years-old. Abbey Road but eighteen. That this is overdue is an understatement.

Even on release, those first generation remasters didn’t thrill anyone. The albums--especially the pre-Sgt. Pepper ones--sounded dry and brittle. The sound was shallow. This was hardly befitting of the most-celebrated rock band of all-time.

The two-volume Past Masters series was an improvement, and the three-volume Anthology series sounded like a Beatles compilation should have. But the original releases languished even long after enormous strides were made in analog-to-digital technology.

With their record label seemingly uninterested in improving the collection, fans took it upon themselves to apply digital technology to pristine vinyl copies of Beatles’ albums, essentially remastering the albums themselves.

Dr. Ebbetts, Fabulous Sound Labs, Blue Box and the folks at Purple Chick all produced amazing work, with the Purple Chick editions even landing a mention in Rolling Stone.

Unlike the underground versions, the new releases won’t contain bonus tracks, and will be using stereo mixes only. So if you’re hoping for the wallop that only mono can provide, or were hoping for demos or alternate takes, you might want to keep looking.

Keep in mind that Purple Chick editions were made by fans for fans, and are never, ever for sale. And that a mono box of the albums will be released, but that date and price have yet to be set.

The good news is that the use of limiters has been, well, limited. Limiting has become very popular in the past few years with the explosion of MP3 players. It reduces the sonic range of a recording to make it louder, and therefore seem “better” when played on an MP3 device.

I know I’m hopelessly literal, but wasn’t an extended dynamic range one of the big advantages of digital sound? Anyway, this means the new set of Beatles remasters has the potential to sound really, really good.

Remasters can inspire eye-widening wonder or head-in-hands disappointment. ABKCO finally got it right the second time around with its 2002 release of the Rolling Stones London-era catalog, which replaced remasters done so poorly that long-time fans couldn’t even recognize certain songs.

The music of the Beatles deserves only the best. Remasters that are as awe-inspiring as their music. Because when it comes to sound, few mastered it as well as those four guys from England.