eye of a tremendous storm of public feeling, and though Harrison claims they were the sanest people in that scenario, it’s also clear that their fame had isolated them from some of the meaning and pleasure of their experience. As you watch
Anthology,
it becomes plain that the Beatles—or at least some of them—may not have really loved their audience, at least after a certain point. In the Beatles’ minds, it appears, that audience became an enclosing and demanding reality, always wanting, often threatening, rarely understanding enough. Harrison, in particular, has the most to say on this point. “They used us as an excuse to go mad, the world did,” he states, “and then they blamed it on us.” Later, he tells a story about visiting the Haight-Ashbury—the San Francisco district identified with the hippie movement—at the height of its fame, and shares his disgust at the constituency he saw there. “Grotty people,” he labels them, with clear disdain. And in
Anthology
’s closing section, Harrison says: “They [the Beatles’ audience] gave their money and they gave their screams, but the Beatles kind of gave their nervous systems, which is a much more different thing to give.”
This distaste for the public’s clamor is possibly the single greatest revelation to be found in
Anthology.
But there is another side to the story—namely, that this same public also gave the Beatles something tremendous, something more than money and screams. That audience gave the Beatles an inspiration to get better, an opportunity to grow, and a willingness to grow along with them. Without the context of that audience, it doesn’t seem likely that the group could have made such a form-stretching work as
Revolver
or such a culture-defining statement as
Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band,
because the pop audience of that time, as much as any of the era’s musicians, was also raising the stakes on what was allowable and what was necessary, and was also delivering judgment on the caliber of what was being offered. The Beatles’ record sales were, as much as anything, a sign of love and appreciation for the band—a mass of
go-ahead
votes. Without that support, the Beatles would have mattered a lot less, and probably would have accomplished a lot less as well.
And yet, in
Anthology
’s insularity, there is never any acknowledgment of that debt. The audience that loved this band was perhaps never seen as real or worthy partners in the group’s journey. The Beatles had only each other and their work for solace, and in time, they didn’t even have that.
WHATEVER ITS FLAWS or merits,
The Beatles Anthology
proved fairly eventful in 1996—at least in a certain way. When
Anthology
first aired in America in 1995, the program drew over 50 million viewers during its three nights of broadcast—something smaller than the record-breaking audience of 70 million who tuned into the group’s first “Ed Sullivan Show” broadcast in 1964, but still, no other popular music figures have ever been granted a six-hour prime-time television special. In the show’s wake, much of the Beatles’ extant catalog (the thirteen original albums, and five collections, including the 1994
Live at the BBC
) returned to
Billboard
’s charts, and sold dramatically. In addition, the three double CD
Anthology
packages, released over the course of the year following the broadcast, also did well—selling over 5 million units to date. Once again, the Beatles loomed as a big and competitive force in the pop world. In fact, according to SoundScan—the company that monitors music sales—the group has sold 27 million CDs since 1991. All this sales activity prompted the
London Observer
to remark: “In 1996 the Beatles have achieved what every group since them has failed to do: become bigger than the Beatles.”
It’s a clever comment, but it also begs a few other comments. In the 1960s, the Beatles being “big” meant something—a great deal, in fact.
Anthology,
it becomes plain that the Beatles—or at least some of them—may not have really loved their audience, at least after a certain point. In the Beatles’ minds, it appears, that audience became an enclosing and demanding reality, always wanting, often threatening, rarely understanding enough. Harrison, in particular, has the most to say on this point. “They used us as an excuse to go mad, the world did,” he states, “and then they blamed it on us.” Later, he tells a story about visiting the Haight-Ashbury—the San Francisco district identified with the hippie movement—at the height of its fame, and shares his disgust at the constituency he saw there. “Grotty people,” he labels them, with clear disdain. And in
Anthology
’s closing section, Harrison says: “They [the Beatles’ audience] gave their money and they gave their screams, but the Beatles kind of gave their nervous systems, which is a much more different thing to give.”
This distaste for the public’s clamor is possibly the single greatest revelation to be found in
Anthology.
But there is another side to the story—namely, that this same public also gave the Beatles something tremendous, something more than money and screams. That audience gave the Beatles an inspiration to get better, an opportunity to grow, and a willingness to grow along with them. Without the context of that audience, it doesn’t seem likely that the group could have made such a form-stretching work as
Revolver
or such a culture-defining statement as
Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band,
because the pop audience of that time, as much as any of the era’s musicians, was also raising the stakes on what was allowable and what was necessary, and was also delivering judgment on the caliber of what was being offered. The Beatles’ record sales were, as much as anything, a sign of love and appreciation for the band—a mass of
go-ahead
votes. Without that support, the Beatles would have mattered a lot less, and probably would have accomplished a lot less as well.
And yet, in
Anthology
’s insularity, there is never any acknowledgment of that debt. The audience that loved this band was perhaps never seen as real or worthy partners in the group’s journey. The Beatles had only each other and their work for solace, and in time, they didn’t even have that.
WHATEVER ITS FLAWS or merits,
The Beatles Anthology
proved fairly eventful in 1996—at least in a certain way. When
Anthology
first aired in America in 1995, the program drew over 50 million viewers during its three nights of broadcast—something smaller than the record-breaking audience of 70 million who tuned into the group’s first “Ed Sullivan Show” broadcast in 1964, but still, no other popular music figures have ever been granted a six-hour prime-time television special. In the show’s wake, much of the Beatles’ extant catalog (the thirteen original albums, and five collections, including the 1994
Live at the BBC
) returned to
Billboard
’s charts, and sold dramatically. In addition, the three double CD
Anthology
packages, released over the course of the year following the broadcast, also did well—selling over 5 million units to date. Once again, the Beatles loomed as a big and competitive force in the pop world. In fact, according to SoundScan—the company that monitors music sales—the group has sold 27 million CDs since 1991. All this sales activity prompted the
London Observer
to remark: “In 1996 the Beatles have achieved what every group since them has failed to do: become bigger than the Beatles.”
It’s a clever comment, but it also begs a few other comments. In the 1960s, the Beatles being “big” meant something—a great deal, in fact.
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