Rock & Roll Rewind: Musical Reconsiderations

Posted: April 1st, 2026 | Filed under: Music, Rock & Roll Rewind | 4 Comments »

On occasion the worth of a yarn is in the telling.

Not whether there’s a lesson or a moral, if any.

It’s can be the journey more than the destination, if any.

Or so I convince myself with today’s adventure.

Not sure exactly where we might arrive — though I’ve a glimmer — but do know where we start.

In the Mississippi Delta during the blister of July ’13.

On two lane blacktop between Greenwood, birthplace of the White Citizens Council, the most southern city in the land; and Clarksdale, home to Ike Turner, Sam Cooke, W.C. Handy, the birthplace of rock & roll.

Highway 49 Revisited.

The quartet of us had been to that haunting Land of Cotton many times over.

Knuck was at the wheel. A regular visitor down there, a veteran of umpteen trips. Captaining legions of minions yearly to King Biscuit Festival in 3d World Helena for decades. A blues aficionado, he. Plus I suppose he loves the tamales at Abe’s, never asked.

Bookstore was riding shotgun. He is also an aficionado of the truest of American musical genres. A devotee of Southside Johnny, George Thorogood, and most importantly Buddy Holly. A large poster of which legend was hanging in his living room in Clifton when I first met him in the mid 70s.

Next to me in the backseat was Bosox. With whom I’ve had more than a few dialogs about when or if the Rolling Stones became irrelevant, a band covering their own hits. He’s still a believer. I gave it up after Steel Wheels.

If you’re reading this, you surely know my tastes. Allmans, TTB, Van Morrison, Allen Toussaint, etc, etc.

Lawyers by trade, the lot of us. Thus we’ve been known to verbally spar.

We were there for a couple of reasons.

Boys road trip.

A way to get out of the house.

A juke joint festival in Clarksdale.

For some reason, we got to talking about the Beatles.

Don’t remember exactly how. Maybe a tune of the Fab Four came on the box. Or we just wended our way there during our never-ending discussion of music.

What I distinctly recall is the schism of opinion.

The duo in the front seat, considering themselves purists, were dismissive of the most iconic group in history.

They poo poohed the quartet. To use technical terminology.

I forget exactly what they said.

But it was something to the effect that John, Paul, George and Ringo were overrated. Not worthy of the acclaim. Blah blah.

To which we in the back seat took umbrage.

With vehemence.

As if we were countering an argument at the bench.

Knuck and Bookstore were obviously incorrect in their assessment. So Bosox and I and most anybody with any sense of modern music would offer.*

*Yes, musical taste is subjective. But there are reasonably objective standards to quality. Technique. Craftsmanship. There are reasons why Derek Trucks is sensibly considered a vastly superior slide player these days than, anybody actually. Dexterity. Chord changes. Mixing of influences. Tone. Fluidity. Taste. Nuance. Or that, for example, James McMurtry’s his father’s son, fashioning lyrics a cut above most.

Whether the front seaters were being contentious just for the sake of it, or really believed the nonsense of their opinion remains a mystery.

 * * * * *

So here’s what made me think of that interlude more than a decade on, while driving a recent morning in my car car.

A couple of things actually.

Macro: I’ve talked before about how in recent times I’ve taken to listening with fresh ears and new intensity to songs I’ve known for decades. Attempting to discern if there’s some nuance I’ve missed, whether it’s a song I’ve fancied or the opposite. A lot of times focusing on percussion.

Micro: “Happiness is a Warm Gun” was playing through the speakers.

I hear Beatles classics all the time. Why this hearing of this particular one invoked memories of that long ago conversation, I haven’t a clue.

It’s a brilliant song. The clever message. The doowoppiness of the final movement. (Yes it’s only 2:44, Knuck and Bookstore, but it has movements like, oh, Beethoven.)

I’ve always loved this one from the White album.

For the first time that day in the car, I realized how Ringo’s ever astute drumming fashioned the switches in tone.

A couple of days later, “Eleanor Rigby” came on.

George Martin’s genius production resonated, as it ought.

And, probably not for the first time, I realized how there are no percussion instruments. How the song is propelled forward by staccato strings. Genius there.

How the lyrical imagery is both evocative and elusive.

And yet again, baseline, how the ever present hagiography of the Beatles is deserved in spades.

How their music is timeless, keeps on fascinating. And entertaining.

And how two of the guys in that car were right, the backseat bunch.

 * * * * *

So, there ya go.

A journey from forlorn Joe Noe Road near Friar’s Point, a gravel byway amid the cotton fields to Abbey Road, where he comes the sun.

One that underscores how it’s sometimes not about where you start or end up on a journey, but sights you see again, maybe for the first time.

— c d kaplan

 

 

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