Old man, do you remember how we were laughing when we first heard the famous Liverpool four's song "When I'm sixty-four" from the legendary album "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band"? We were 14-15 years old, and we simply decided that the Beatles were crazy ...
But then, 50 years ago, the whole world was absolutely blown away, everyone was crazy about it, and we were no exception. We went crazy, as well, we were blown away!
We had long hair just like the Beatles. Collars were sprayed out of classic suits and roll-neck sweaters were made with narrow standing collars, giant wedges were stitched in from the knees to the heels (often in a different color), and the pants looked like bells. If the edges were sewn with a dozen light bulbs from a flashlight, and the long wire was secured in your pocket, connecting it with a large square "Element 366" battery at 12 volts, and in the evening, if you passed with the company by the peer girls, turned this "New Year tree" several times, you'd definitely hear them screaming! You would read a real delight in the green-blue girlish eyes.
Oh, what happened during the labor class! Old man, you didn't forget, did you? Half of the class, with the obsessive persistence of Neanderthals, was making stools, and the second half, with even more obsessive persistence, the persistence of George Fullerton, father of the famous Stratocaster, was making their first electric guitars ... Guitar necks were made of pine timber, and the soundboard was glued out of several layers of plywood ...
And during the Komsomol trainings, along with everyone, we sang our own version of the famous Soviet hit: "And Lennon is so young, and Ringo is always ahead!"
And how we climbed the drainpipe to the window of the women's toilet on the second floor? That, you probably did not forget! We climbed there to get to the concert-contest of school rock bands with the idiotic abbreviation "VIA". After all, this is impossible to forget, right?
And all of that, old man, happened because you and I were low-performing students, and the concert tickets, signed and stamped by the school director, our unforgettable Sophia Nikolayevna Kantseva, were given only to excellent and good students.
And so, after having been properly scratched by the rough wall of the home school, by the hooks, firmly holding the "flute of drainpipes" in its arms, you, at last, with a rollover get through the window of the second floor into the women's toilet. You shake yourself off, you bring yourself into a fine form and with an angel-boy look you go to the assembly hall on the fifth floor.
In the assembly hall, there is an atmosphere of elitism, teachers and headmaster sit in the front rows (these are the juries of the competition), and the attendants with red armbands on their sleeves rush between the ranks, trying to somehow calm down the growing hum of over-excited voices that roll from one corner of the hall to another. The hall is fully filled with the public, someone smokes into a sleeve, someone, having taken a sip of the port wine, passes the bottle from under the floor to the next Bacchus fan.
The shrill chords of electric guitars make your whole body vibrate, euphoria embraces you, and you suddenly realize that "the world is created for love". Having gained courage, you are inviting your classmate to a slow dance under the seductive sounds of "Yesterday". She becomes crimson from your timid touches to her waist. By accidentally moving your hands on her back, you touch the fasteners of her bra ... You are seized by a holy thrill of the very thought, old man, that you can unfasten it ... Your breath is lost, you blush and turn away hoping she did not have time to read your thoughts.
The degree of euphoria rises when the rock and roll "Can't Buy Me Love" sounds, and you do not understand what is happening to you: you are conquered by this music, you are ready to laugh and cry for no reason, rhythmically waving hands and feet moving with the public.
"You can't buy love for ringing coins, no!" - the next participant of the contest sings. We were so naive, old man!
Paul McCartney was sixteen years old when he wrote his hit "When I'm sixty-four":
When I get old and bald,
Will you love me?
Perhaps you will not need me,
When I'm sixty-four?
I am 64 years old, old and bald, going with my girl to the "Beatles party" at the Red October recreation center, where the music of my youth will be played.
How nice it is to have this time machine - the Beatles' immortal music! And again, like 50 years ago, we will slowly dance under the famous "Yesterday", and I will again and again feel the thrill of your body, watch your eyes get wet, your slightly cracked lips get pink... And again, the voice of 16-year-old Paul will hum:
Our age, my friend, is such a thing:
We do not see how old age comes,
You will not notice – there go grandchildren,
Different diseases, and life is no longer sweet.
But don't be sad, you can't fool the years,
Maybe nature doesn't bloom in our window.
But will you also need me,
When I'm sixty-four?
And you will be overwhelmed by euphoria again, and you suddenly realize that life goes on, and anything may still happen to you. After all, you are the last Beatlemaniac!
P. S. We, the 15-year-olds, couldn't have imagined that the reason for writing the song "When I'm sixty-four" was the birthday of Paul's father, who had actually recently turned sixty-four.