Some of us were always Team George.
In early 1964, the Beatles rolled out of JFK Airport, onto the stage of “The Ed Sullivan Show” and into the frenzied hearts of millions of teenagers. What were four identical musicians to parents were quickly individuated by their children. My two older sisters fought over the “Meet the Beatles” LP and locked horns in the eternal teleological debate: John vs. Paul. I was 6, and most of my grammar school peers favored Ringo: He was funny and funny-looking, a natural clown. But whether it was because of his cartoon monobrow, his terse self-possession or the simple fact that the other three seemed taken, I was drawn to George Harrison as my personal Beatle. That was part of the revolution: For the first time in popular culture, every member of a pop group was indispensable to the whole, and yet you had to choose just one favorite.
