The Beatles were the center of my world at the time. I had fallen in love after seeing a film of them on the Jack Parr Show in December of 1963. Parr was mildly ridiculing a novelty act in his sophisticated mind. Looking back, they seem to be a gift from God to youth coming so soon after the Kennedy assassination.
The next day after the Parr show my brother and my brother and I found the Capitol single of "I Want to Hold Your Hand" with its truly iconic black and white photograph of the Beatles in their odd tight suits with no collars. I remember wishing it was the song from the film clip, "She Loves You." That song we found within days, an earlier 45 rpm release on the swan label.
So began my Beatlemania. I remember seeing "Meet the Beatles" for the first time during lunch hour at school. I had to go in and ask the guy in a little records show if this was the same Beatles. I had studied the single sleeve photo and they looked too different to me in that stark chiaroscuro LP cover shot. They were archetypal for me from the beginning, and mildly obsessional.
So my choices were going to be two when I knelt before the Bishop at St William's in the newly built Kennedy-era white modernist church. Ringo would have been out of the question and Paul was already my middle name. John may have been my favorite but his name was just too dull for me. Years before he was identified as the spiritual Beatle, when the venerable older man with a glorious miter and gold-embroidered chasuble asked me the name I had chosen, I answered with confidence, "George."
A decade passed rather eventfully and I found myself at the Boston Garden for a concert by George Harrison. He had just released a fine but somewhat poppy and "New Age" follow-up album to his hugely successful debut solo collection and was touring the United States with a band and with Ravi Shankar as opening act.
I don't recall many of the particulars of the day. I do know that after being admitted early and that we greatly improved our seating over those printed on our ticket. We had hopped down onto floor level from our bleacher seats and gotten to within five rows of the stage just left of center. Miracle upon miracle, before long out came George and his band for a soundcheck. A few in the sparse crowd may called out to get his attention in a desultory manner and without success.
The cover art for his new album was a painting of a hillside of spiritual personae with the figure of Baba Ji, the undying Yogi Christ of Tibet floating above all. I had read the Autobiography of a Yogi the very widely-read book by Paramahansa Yogananda and so was familiar with Baba Ji. Although not a devotee myself I was inspired by its devotion. For some time before that, I had chanted and done yoga as well as familiarized myself with the art and literature of Hindusm. But I was at best an eclectic dilletante not a well-versed follower.
So when I called out to George standing not far away on stage with his electric guitar, "Jai Baba Ji!" I was unprepared for his response. He turned to me and bowed while giving me a pranam, the familiar gesture of extending hands folded in the manner of prayer. I was of course expected to return the gesture after calling the Maha-guru's name but I was too awe-struck to do other than to smile. Simultaneously the fellow directly behind me got the hot square on due to me. Perhaps due to my lack of reciprocation and the well-positioned photographer but it seemed that George made a wry micro-expression of disappointment as he turned back to his business.
Nevertheless I can still feel the exhilaration of his blessing after these thirty-five years, ten years after his death. Today was his birthday. I'm remembering him with a pranam as I close.
