“Here comes the sun,” George Harrison warbled over arpeggiated notes of sunshine on The Beatles’s 1969 album “Abbey Road.”
Well, here come the sons, as New Yorker editor Ben Greenman quipped.
And I say: It’s not alright.
In an interview with the BBC, James McCartney, 34, Paul’s only son, said he’s interested in forming a band with Sean Lennon, Dhani Harrison and Zak Starkey, sons of John, George and Ringo, respectively.
Get back.
Somewhere, Harrison’s guitar is gently weeping. It’s preposterous – not even Lennon could have imagined such a utopic instance of wealth-sharing.
In other words, James McCartney’s a dreamer. But he’s purportedly not the only one.
“I don’t think it’s something that Zak wants to do,” he said. “Maybe [another of Starr’s sons] would want to do it. I’d be up for it. Sean seemed to be into it, Dhani seemed to be into it. I’d be happy to do it.”
Of course he’d be happy to do it. McCartney has less talent than a Liverpool brothel, and his own music – what the Brits call “hubbub,” I believe – certainly hasn’t bought him any love. At this point, happiness, for McCartney, ought to be a warm gun.
The apple never falls far from the tree, and in this case, the apple hasn’t fallen from it at all. It’s been nourished far beyond any semblance of ripeness.
The apple’s spoiled rotten, for all intents and purposes.
Exactly what is this glorified tribute band, these Drab Four, to be called? The Feebles? The Weevils? The Beatles Lite?
How about this: The Roaches.
Truthfully, it’s none of the above – like The Beatles’ sons, themselves. The glorified tribute band would be called “The Beatles – The Next Generation,” according to the AFP.
Which, as far as day-tripping offshoots go, rates somewhere between “Star Trek: The Next Generation” and “Degrassi: The Next Generation.”
There was a time – let’s call it “Yesterday” – when one rose to fame and fortune on the wings of his own aptitude and moxie, not his father’s. Then, tickets to ride were procured only by blood, sweat and tears – and flawlessly coiffed mop-tops.
These lads – bless their hearts – haven’t ever known a hard day’s night.
Granted, that’s almost exclusively the case with the pampered progeny of celebrities. Wealth, at least, if not talent, is always inherited.
But the difference between James McCartney and, for instance, Damian Marley and Jakob Dylan is that the former musician inherited little more than his father’s name.
Marley and Dylan, in turn, never shamelessly counterfeited their fathers’ legends. Of course, those apples didn’t fall far from the tree, but they fell, nevertheless.
James McCartney recently performed at the Cavern Club in Liverpool, the legendary venue of The Beatles’ first concert – but his audience wasn’t there for him, rest assured.
And The Beatles’ sons’ coming together under, not over, their fathers’ legacy isn’t just blatant nepotism.
It’s patricide.
There ought to be a better way to celebrate the Fab Four’s 50th anniversary than to tarnish their legacy as such.
Listen to The Beatles’ music, not their sons’. And The Beatles’ legacy?
Let it be.
Phil Sweeney is a 25-year-old English senior from New Orleans. Follow him on Twitter @TDR_PhilSweeney.
 
 
—-
Contact Phil Sweeney at [email protected].