Broken Music

Music has always been my refuge from sadness. The guitar I inherited from my uncle John now has decent strings, and I'm no longer making the "broken" music that so upset my grandmother; in fact I'm making a lot of progress, but the limitations of my first instrument are holding me back. There are things that I simply can't do with this primitive heirloom.
From the money I earned on the milk rounds I have saved up enough for a new acoustic guitar that I've had my eye on. It has been hanging from the wall in Braidford's Music Shop for three months now. I go and see it after school every evening, praying that no one has bought it. It is a beautiful steel--stringed instrument with a blond finish, an ebony fingerboard, and delicate marquetry inlaid around the sound hole. It costs me sixteen guineas, which is a large amount of money, but I'm in love for the very first time.
I first heard the Beatles in my final year at junior school. I remember being in the changing rooms of the swimming baths. Mr. Law had just supervised one of our chaotic and impossibly noisy trips to the baths--by "supervised" I mean that no one had actually been drowned. We were drying ourselves off and, as was our custom, flicking towels at each other's genitals. It was at this point that we heard the first bars of "Love Me Do" from a transistor radio in the corner. The effect was immediate. There was something in the sparseness of the sound that immediately put a stop to the horseplay. John's lonely harmonica and Paul's bass played "two to the bar," and then the vocal harmony moved in modal fifths up to minor thirds and back again to a solo voice on the refrain. Not that I could articulate any of this at the time, but I recognized something significant, even revolutionary, in the spare economy of the sound, and the interesting thing is, so did everyone else.
By the time "She Loves You" reached number one in the charts I was already at the grammar school, but it wasn't the confident primitivism of the "yeah yeah yeah" chorus that excited me so much as the G major chord with an added sixth that colored it at the end of the coda. Again, I couldn't articulate this then, but I knew as the G major chord with an added sixth that colored it at the end of the coda. An old dance band cliche, but when the Beatles used it there seemed to be a subtle irony at work. Again, I couldn't articulate this then, but I knew instinctively that it was pointing to a level of sophistication that I hadn't been aware of in pop music until then. The Beatles would succeed in manipulating as many musical forms into their songs, whether classical, folk, rock and roll, the blues, Indian raga, or vaudeville, in a dizzying and seamless pastiche of ideas and cultural references. It was music without frontiers and the ubiquitous soundtrack for a generation that thought it could change the world.
Jim Berryman, in his otherwise excellent biography, "A Sting in the Tale," claims that I was outside the City Hall when the Fab Four played there in 1963, and that I managed to grab a lock of McCartney's hair. This is of course fantasy, and would have been out of keeping with the budding intellectual pretensions that I was nurturing at the time. But it is impossible to stress too much