My Heart Went Boom
February 12, 2004

It was 40 years ago today—well, almost to the day—that the British conquered America. On February 9, 1964, the Beatles made the first of three consecutive appearances on the Ed Sullivan TV show.

American kids still shell-shocked over the assassination of President Kennedy ten weeks earlier had something to cheer about. We were delighted by the Beatles' infectious music and cheeky, irreverent sense of fun. Absolutely nothing fazed them: they had a wisecrack for every occasion, which made quite an impression on us gawky kids who were fazed by absolutely everything.

There was also the sheer adrenalin rush of being swept along on a groundswell of adolescent hysteria. The week before the Sullivan show, all the girls in the sixth grade were abuzz. At home, I had to keep my cool in front of my parents and my scornful older brothers. But like everyone else in America, we always watched Ed Sullivan, Topo Gigio notwithstanding. So it wasn't weird that I was propped up in front of the TV on that fateful night, secretly stuffing my demented giggles back into my mouth. I saw Paul bouncing and laughing, John ("Sorry girls, he's married") flashing his Cheshire-cat grin, George doing a silly impromptu dance step, and Ringo surveying it all with Buster Keaton aplomb. My family was snickering all around me, but it was all over for me. Or rather, it was all beginning.

Puberty began for me when the Beatles took the stage that night, and I've never fully recovered from either. The yearning of those "Yeah! Yeah! Yeahs!" and the urgency of that high note in "I Want To Hold Your Hand" touched something primal and scary and irresistible in my 11-year-old bosom. People who don't understand why little girls scream for pop stars must be genetic miracles who never actually experienced puberty for themselves.

Within a year, my bedroom walls were papered in Beatle Centerfold Modern. I spent hours on the phone with my girlfriend Jeannine over every new Beatle song on the radio, let alone the supreme ecstasy of a Beatle apearance on TV. (In those antediluvian days before the Internet, MTV, and DVDs, we were completely at the mercy of network broadcasting.) We memorized the Beatles' jokes, copied their clothes, and imitated their Liverpudlian slang, mystifying the counterpersons at our local Foster's Freeze with our requests for "jam butties" and "jelly babies."

The big event of 1965 was going into Hollywood with Jeannine's mom to see Help! before it opened up in neighborhood theaters. As summer wore on, I saw the movie 16 1/2 times and knew every shrug, wink, and syllable of dialogue by heart.

But even that paled next to my one and only live Beatle concert. In August, 1966, two days after my 14th birthday, we saw the Beatles live at Dodger Stadium. Like ours, every car on the freeway that Sunday afternoon was full of blithering teenage girls, with a harried mom gritting her teeth at the wheel and windows festooned with "Beatles Rule!" banners.

It wasn't like a modern supergroup concert with a lot of pyrotechnic effects, mountains of amps and giant screens. We paid top price—$6—for seats way up in the third tier overlooking home plate. The stage was out at second base; it was like watching the show from the moon. The four opening acts—the Remains, Bobby Hebb, the Cyrkle, and the Ronettes—paraded across the stage like ants.

But when the Beatles came onstage, it didn't matter. We already knew their songs and mannerisms well enough to piece together in out fevered imaginations what we couldn't actually see or hear (for all the screaming). It also didn't matter that even though Revolver had just hit the stores, their primitive touring equipment wouldn't allow them to play anything much more complicated than "Ticket To Ride." We were in the same place, breathing the same air, sharing the same historical moment as John, Paul, George, and Ringo, and the ecstasy was indescribable.

As it turned out, that was the next-to-last concert the Beatles ever gave. (How I wish now I hadn't cut those wallet-size photos of Paul out of the official program!) The next day they flew to San Francisco to finish up the 1966 concert tour at the Cow Palace; the day after that, they gave up the road forever to concentrate on writing, recording, and TV. (The subsequent short films they shot for international TV to promote the release of each new single were prototypes for the next generation's music videos.) It was the end of a chaotic era—although it seems my puberty went on for another ten years.

Two of the Beatles are gone now, which makes me feel about 100 years old. Yet I can't watch those old Ed Sullivan appearances without feeling that same rush of exuberance. How often do you get a chance to re-experience your adolescent self? (And frankly, who would want to? I'd look pretty silly now in those go-go boots and painted-on Twiggy eyelashes.) But watching the Beatles transports me back to that moment in time when delirious possibilities beyond reckoning were opening up before me. It was more than the merry mop-tops calling to me. It was life.