It’s mid-March. Usually, we gear up for the Festival for Beatles
Fans, only the East Coast event was suspended for this year as organizers seek
to reconfigure it.
As much as I love it and have unfailingly attended it since
the mid-1990s when it was called “Beatlefest” and was located in Secaucus, the
event has lost much of its luster over the last few years.
We did not attend the event when it celebrated the 60th
anniversary of the Beatles’ arrival in America because they relocated it
temporarily from Jersey City to Long Island.
But in truth, each year makes the event less attractive,
partly because those who have seen the Beatles story firsthand have faded away.
Over the last three decades, the line up of stars was amazing,
include Astrid, George Harrison’s sister, members of Wings and other –
including Donovan.
None of the Beatles ever attended, even John Lennon, who supported
the concept when it started in the 1970s. I suppose the Beatles when all were
still alive feared a repeat of Beatlemania madness.
Beatlefest became the place where later albums were unveiled,
such as Live from the BBC, and the Anthology, and a not small irony of my
friend, Hank, who passed away days ahead of the release of Live at the BBC, when
he – like the rest of us – had ached so much for a Beatles reunion.
His funeral took place at the same time as the Beatlefest
that year, which allowed me to purchase Sergeant Peppers patches for myself and
the two other surviving members of our unofficial Beatles wannabes.
Garrick being Garrick managed to slip his patch into Hank’s
coffin just before it was closed for the trip to the graveyard, a quiet and
private tribute to Hank and all our hopes of following in the footsteps of the
Beatles –and rekindled in me the feelings I had back in 1980 when John Lennon
passed away.
In 2001 when George Harrison died, I made my way to Strawberry
Fields, and then months later to Beatlefest where we all paid tribute,
accompanied that year by Garrick.
Pauly, the Lennon-like member of our little group, long
claimed the Beatles ruined our lives by setting up expectations that we could
actually achieve greatness, despite our blue-collar upbringing. It is an illusion
he took to his grave, and something I thought about when they canceled the 2020
Beatlefest on account of COVID. Unlike
with Hank or George Harrison, I had no place to go to help mourn his passing, a
gap that still exists in my life, even though a year later, the event resumed.
Over the last 30 years, I perpetually held out hope that one
of the remaining Beatles would show up, giving us all the thrill of a lifetime.
My wife, fortunately, saw the Beatles live at Shea Stadium. I never got an
opportunity to see them or any of their solo acts.
When I was still on the run from the police back in 1971, I
missed George\s concert for Bangladesh – I had been living in New York, but
went west to Portland, only to kick myself when the event as announced, though
Hank managed to make it, just as he got to see Hendrix at the Filmore a year or
so earlier.
Now, with Sir Paul more or less retiring and Ringo likely to
do the same shortly, the opportunity to actually Meet the Beatles becomes even
less likely. But we will always have their music, and perhaps that will always
be enough.
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