Here's the yellow fellow again, who says he
won't go there : a textbook ordinary example
of 'fool.' The kind you learn about in school.
He's sitting here by me at this roundtable bar
insisting on going over every snippet of this
cord he's running with. 'It. it's 50 years old,
you know, now, 50 years man they came out
with Sgt. Pepper.' I just nod (Jeez I fuckin'
hate that record I remember, and I can't even
remember if he's right : is it Pepper , as he
says, or was it Pepper's. I realize I'm really
too tired to care). 'Yeah, I say. My third wife
was born that very day. When I ran off with
her her mother said 'Daddy, our baby's gone.'
And old Pops just shrugged (he was my age,
you see) and said, 'She's leaving home, bye, bye.'
Yeah, so then the guy gets up from the the table
and walks away; comes back with this stupid
book that has like every Beatle song, anything
at all that has to do with the 50-year old album.
What this meant, who was wearing what and
sitting where, how this or that idea came to
be, in what ways the music was tweaked and
recorded over itself, all that. Let's call it
'minutiae.' As in mutiny? Trifling mattes
of the craft. Tiredness. Mundane.
'About this 'Blackburn, Lancashire,' my fine
fellow, exactly how many holes were there?'