The Importance of Being Neglected by Your Parents
and what we can all learn from George Harrison
This is a purely anecdotal observation, so don’t go jumping down my throat, but I noticed something odd when I first transferred from a private school on Long Island (that felt, more or less, like 13th grade) to SUNY New Paltz in 1990. Well, it was more than something, really. There were a lot of things. I believe it may have even qualified as being culture shock.
The dorms had construction paper balloons butted up to each side of the individual door frames and, in each balloon, was the first name of who would be residing there. Right off the bat, I did not spot a single Bobby or Tony or Vinny. There were Noahs, Josiahs, Ursulas, and Elijas for as far as the eye could see. It was like hanging out in the Green Room for Little House on the Prairie.
As time went on, I began to explore the village outside of college and eventually befriended a number of kids in town that were not college students. I began to notice something else that was very different from what I experienced on Long Island. The dynamic most of these kids had with their parents could almost be described as friendly and gregarious. These parents seemed to encourage their children's artistic growth–a tendency that I had never seen where I grew up. As a matter of fact, most of my friends on the island got nothing but shit for wanting to sing and play and paint and write.
This is going to sound awfully mean and judgemental, but I also noticed that the artistic output of these encouraged kids was, shall we say, sub-par. Even at 20 years old, I began to notice there was some inexplicable value to being discouraged by shitty parents. There is something about a little friction and rebellion that shows up in the output of the artist.
Let’s take the example of George Harrison: by the time the Beatles were in the studio recording what came to be known as “The White Album,” George was getting increasingly frustrated by Paul McCartney and John Lennon’s dismissive attitude when it came to the songs he was writing. I think one of the things I learned about that period that shocked me the most, was that John and Paul were really not thrilled about the idea of putting “While My Guitar Gently Weeps” on the record at all. They just didn’t think it was up to snuff.
Now, if you are familiar with that album, think about the fact that it included songs like “Honey Pie,” “Revolution 9”, “Wild Honey Pie,” and “Why Don’t We Do It In The Road?” If you are not familiar with it, listen to a minute or so of each of those songs, and then listen to “While My Guitar Gently Weeps.” The very notion that those other songs were favored over Harrison’s, goes way beyond blind ego. It might even skim the surface of insanity. Or, at the very least, profound delusion.
It really is not that mysterious why George was pretty “checked out” until the band’s breakup a year and a half later. The reality of that band’s hierarchy was made worse for George for a few other reasons: he was the youngest (we’re talking months, here) and he was a late bloomer when it came to writing material. The two songs he was “permitted to contribute” on each album may have made sense in the “Revolver” and “Rubber Soul” years, but by 1968, he was arguably becoming one of the world’s best songwriters.
Paul and John refused to accept this reality. That is, until the last recorded album was released and George had the two biggest songs, “Here Comes The Sun.” and “Something.” The latter was described by Frank Sinatra as “…the greatest love song that was ever written.” At this point, that reference might have lost some of its teeth, but try to imagine Eminem calling you and telling you that you wrote the best rap song in the world.
And at the risk of being accused of overkill, from the 56 albums that were released collectively by all four members as solo artists, George Harrison’s triple LP “All Things Must Pass” is generally seen by most serious critics as the masterpiece that outranks them all.
That album, ironically, is nothing more than a collection of songs that were all rejected for inclusion on Beatle albums by John and Paul.
At this point you’re probably thinking, “Alright! Alright! I get it. Enough already!” and I can hear you all the way from where I am sitting. And I will stop. I, officially, rest my case. But there’s a reason I needed to set this up so thoroughly and I can guarantee you it’s not what you think.
On August 13th, my kids were in Cape Cod with their mother and I had, what I thought, was one of those rare weekends where I wasn’t playing anywhere or spending time with Gloria and River. So, there I was, at the car wash in my town, shining up my wheels and spraying shit on my tires to make my little Lexus Hybrid look like a hot rod. Just then, the owner of a winery almost 25 miles away texted me, “Aren’t you excited? It’s such a beautiful day to play outside!”
My stomach dropped like a tray of dishes on a linoleum floor. It was 12:50 pm, ten minutes before the music was supposed to start and I was cluelessly whistling and playing with spray bottles a half hour away–AND all my equipment was home. Now, to get to the part where I get uncomfortably honest, I was not taking care of myself like someone who had a seven hour gig to play. I’m not sure I opened my guitar case all week. And without throwing myself too far under the bus, let’s just quote Sherlock Holmes by saying “I was using myself a bit too freely.”
I rushed as fast as I could, and I proceeded to play that day and the next, like a complete amateur. I had the kind of vocal range that Billy Joel and Jackson Browne have presently–part of one octave.
For the first time in my life, I couldn’t get my voice to follow what my brain was commanding it to do. Sunday night, I left without getting paid because I felt like a thief taking money for those performances. It was, without question, two of the most humiliating gigs I have ever played. And the $2 in tips I made on Sunday, made it impossible for me to diminish those feelings as the week went on. I managed to feel just as miserable about it on Thursday as I did on Sunday night.
But I’m going to reframe this whole thing. My ability to entertain people with a guitar and a microphone and get substantially compensated for it is nothing short of miraculous. I could list the reasons why this is, but they are too numerous and this piece is already over my usual limit.
I am going to just make the point that the way I was living was kind of like having a Gibson J200 and keeping it in a plastic trash bag.
So, in two hours, I will once again be in front of people playing music–and you can bet these gigs will not be anything like last month’s. Because maybe–just maybe–I needed to experience a weekend like that to finally get my shit together. There’s a really good chance that nothing short of humiliation and depression would’ve been able to snap me out of this toxic trip down memory lane.
And as traumatizing as it was to my ego, I could think of a few other outcomes that would’ve had much worse far reaching effects.
This is so good, and yes, sometimes the worst situation can pick us up and perform to our best. I did not know all that about George, he was my favorite Beatle, even from the time I watched them on the Ed Sullivan show in February 1964 and saw them live at the Baltimore Civic Center September 13, 1964. To hear his music blossom was heart-amazing and I always thought he was the better writer. So get up on stage today and sing and strum your heart out.
Agree with Jann, never knew that about George but the underdog shines when it's their time. Thank you for sharing some history and how it links into your story. Hoping my virtual tips made it into your tip jar through someone else's generous hands :) And, you're so right about figuring out how to navigate in a world that's made up of both silver spoons and plasticware. You're writing offers so much reflection. It actually took me back to being grateful, in a sense, that I had student loans and it took me 10 years to pay them off. I never thought I'd say it but realizing that it takes investing in oneself to continue moving forward, no matter the cost. Looking forward to next week's offering. Enjoy the climb until then.