This is what the search for the title of this post yields when you look up the title. Enough information for me and what I am looking to do, which is mostly to contextualize today’s memory. I grew up in the seventies in Argentina, where The Beatles were still all the rage although they broke up in 1975. As a kid, I was so hooked into their music and so fond of them that I refused to believe they were no longer producing new records together. As long as their crisp young voices continued to resonate through the scratchiness of my Wincofon, they were together enough for me to be happy and believe the world was not such a dire place in the end.
Then came Paul McCartney’s Band on the Run album, which Wikipedia has it as his third solo album but I vividly remember as my first love of McCartney’s career as a musician with his own band. My favorite Beatle was George Harrison, whom I had always perceived as being the shy tormented soul that best reflected how I felt about life, but I could accommodate Paul’s unique talent to produce melodies and lyrics that were just perfectly married. George’s hits were more sporadic and exotic, but his mastery as a musician is unparalleled. If there was only one song I could take with me to a lonely island or my grave, it would be While My Guitar Gently Weeps.