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I am sitting on my bed listening to my Christmas present from my sons: the Beatles' White Album.
I own several Beatles' CDs, and it might be thought a bit odd that I didn't buy this one for myself, especially since it contains many of my very favorite Beatle songs, from "Back in the U.S.S.R." and "Obla-di-Obla-da" to "Martha My Dear" and "Julia."
Except I know why: "Revolution no. 9." when I was a girl, my older sister, with whom I shared a room, used to play this album at all hours -- and that relentless "number 9... number 9... number 9" infested my nightmares -- even after I was grown. I deliberately avoided buying it because I cannot stand to hear that track. (For many years I would hang up when ever I got a phone recording -- it evoked similar feelings of terrible dread in me. I still don't like answering machines.)
I find it interesting the way it is so hard to erase the memory of something that on its surface was so innocuous...
I own several Beatles' CDs, and it might be thought a bit odd that I didn't buy this one for myself, especially since it contains many of my very favorite Beatle songs, from "Back in the U.S.S.R." and "Obla-di-Obla-da" to "Martha My Dear" and "Julia."
Except I know why: "Revolution no. 9." when I was a girl, my older sister, with whom I shared a room, used to play this album at all hours -- and that relentless "number 9... number 9... number 9" infested my nightmares -- even after I was grown. I deliberately avoided buying it because I cannot stand to hear that track. (For many years I would hang up when ever I got a phone recording -- it evoked similar feelings of terrible dread in me. I still don't like answering machines.)
I find it interesting the way it is so hard to erase the memory of something that on its surface was so innocuous...