Like most reasonable people my age, The Beatles played an immeasurable part in my musical upbringing. The band’s entire catalog of tunes literally defined pop music as a genre and they set the gold standard for how harmonies, catchy lyrics, and a chorus with a hook should be crafted, sung, and played.

I have never been a Stones fan. It was always The Beatles. More talent, less flare. Better songs, less heroin.

Kenny Stewart, a good friend up the block from me on Alfred Street in West L.A., was of Scottish descent and his parents loved the Fab Four. He and I would sit in his tiny bedroom and listen for hours to the family’s scratchy LP collection with the Beatles. This was back in 1970 or 1971, shortly after John, Paul, George, and Ringo went separate ways.

I never got to see them live, but I have a vague memory of my mother saying that she saw them at the Hollywood Bowl in 1965. I used to own the album Introducing The Beatles, but sadly, like my old Gibson SG Junior, it too was stolen. Possibly during one of my life’s umpteen moves.

I’ve not yet seen Peter Jackson’s new documentary with footage from The Beatles last studio session. But I am planning to do so soon.