All Those Years Ago

George Harrison died on Thursday after a
long battle with cancer. He was 58 years old and the youngest
Beatle. For those of us who grew up listening to the Beatles, who
were lucky enough to have been raised by ex-hippie parents who
still believed in peace and love and all that jazz, Harrison's death is
the death of a generation. And for all those who spent the weekend
in Strawberry Fields, these are days to mourn not only the loss of
George, but also the loss of memories that the Beatles' music
helped make. These are days to mourn the loss of something
greater: the loss of the 1960s and the loss of innocence, the loss
of a band and the loss of great music, and the loss of a youth
culture that had been defined by that music.

The Beatles were more than a band. I can say this with confidence
because I was never alive during their reign. I never went to a
Beatles concert, and I never saw them play on The Ed Sullivan
Show. I was never a member of any Beatles fan clubs, and I
never bought a Beatles record. But I know the Beatles were more
than a band because when I was young, and we still owned a
functioning turntable, my mother used to play me another album,
an album by a woman named Christine Lavin. The last song on
the album was called "The Dakota," and the chorus went like this:
"Every time I see the Dakota, I think about that night. Shots ringing
out, the angry shouts, a man losing his life. Well, it's something we
shouldn't dwell upon, but it's something we shouldn't ignore. So
many good men have been cut down. Let's pray there won't be any
more."

And there will be songs to write about George Harrison, as well.
There will be songs to write about the quiet guitarist behind the
greatest band of the 20th century. "All those years ago," George
Harrison sang, in memory of John Lennon, "you were the one who
imagined it all, all those years ago." It wasn't just John Lennon,
though, who imagined it all. It wasn't just John Lennon who
wanted peace in times of war, who wanted to make things right. It
was George Harrison, too, and most of all it was the cult of the
Beatles, the band they were and the band they appeared to be. It
was the time and the place and all the elements of the universe
working together that imagined it all, all those years ago.

An old family friend e-mailed me after Harrison's death. "One of my
fondest memories is holding you (about 18 mos. old)," he wrote,
"while we listened to the Beatles' White Album. You absolutely
loved it (songs like ëMartha My Dear,' ëRocky Raccoon,' and, of
course, two of George's greats, ëWhile My Guitar Gently Weeps'
and ëPiggies')." I was 18 months old, and John Lennon was
already dead. Reagan was already president and the world was
already changing. But the music that took my parents through the
'60s, the music that was the soundtrack to an era of protest and
passion and all kinds of genuine human emotion, ushered me
into this world.

Well, we already knew that there would be no more music, at least
not from those four men. We already knew that the moment had
passed. And we already knew that the values espoused by the
Beatles were no longer in vogue. But there was a little hope, with
three Beatles alive and kicking, that the door was not completely
shut, that there would still be anti-war protests and revolutions,
that everyone would still want to change the world.

George Harrison's death marks the end of an era--an era when
people thought peace was important enough to sing about--and
also the end of a generation. Maybe that mark was made 21 years
ago, when that other Beatle was so violently taken from the world.
Or maybe it is only now--at the start of this new century--that the
era is over. "I look at the world," Harrison sang, "and I notice it's
turning, while my guitar gently weeps. With every mistake we must
surely be learning. Still my guitar gently weeps." The world has
turned, and with it one of the most quietly influential men of the
20th century has passed away. May we hear what he has left
behind.

Hannah Selinger is a Columbia College senior majoring in
English and comparative literature.