If I Fell

(Originally published in Confessions of a Serial Songwriter on BackBeat Books)

When my daughter Layla was eleven years old, our family of three “Southwested”

over to Las Vegas to see Cirque du Soleil’s LOVE. I had always enjoyed

Cirque shows in the past…the choreography, the acrobatics, the whole

visual extravaganza…but I wouldn’t have gone so far out of my way to

see another, especially to Vegas—you know how I feel about Vegas and all

that neon. The theme of this show, however, was Beatles, and that changed

things. I had been telling Adam that we’d better get up there before the

show moved on, because missing it would definitely have made me cranky.

One of the obsessions that Adam and I have shared over the years is

our insatiable hunger for all things Beatles. Driving across Mulholland

in the Hollywood Hills, if a playlist shuffles to Rubber Soul, we revel in

the discovery of a harmony we never noticed before and the discussion

commences. We analyze the Dylanesque-ness of “You’ve Got to Hide Your

Love Away.” Are we “a John” or are we “a Paul”? Who really carried that

weight? How incredible it was that their stars collided and they actually

found each other? What were the chances? How lucky for them. How lucky

for us. This is the way it has always been for Adam and me…an ongoing

never-ending exchange of which we never tire.

Now we have a kid in the backseat, chiming in. I am proud to say Layla

is as fanatical about the Beatles as her parents. I often wonder whether there

is a recessive Beatles gene, because if there is, she must have inherited it

along with the color of her eyes—our own little Fab Four connoisseur. To

have her knowledgeably participate in this dialogue is poetic, joyous, adorable,

hysterical and scary. We love it.

I was a small child when I fell. At the first sight of those skinny pants and

dangling cigarettes, all I wanted to do was get close enough to smell them,

to hold their hand, close my eyes and let them kiss me (on the cheek)…or

tell me a secret. That’s about as intimate as my fantasies got.

Layla might not have “been there,” but I believe she “goes there” retroactively.

There’s a poster of Abbey Road over her closet to which she wakes

up every morning. She has buttons and coasters and T-shirts and playing

cards. She listens to “For No One” when she brushes her teeth and plays “If

I Fell” on the piano. And she knows what I mean when I tell her “Across the

Universe” is an out-of-body experience.

The Beatles pulled us into a place we didn’t know existed—a world of

uncontrived, uncalculated delicious madness…of minor to major to minor

again, of dropped measures and bizarre segues. Yet, the absence of logic

never made so much sense. Anything was possible. They cooked with spices

we never tasted. It was like we were all virgins and we shall never get that

flower back. I miss them. I miss something having that much power over

me.

LOVE was mind-blowing. The theatrics artfully chronicled and interpreted

the Beatles’ story, while a killer soundtrack of medleys and mash-ups

radiated from speakers in the headrest of every seat in the house. It was

like one big Sgt. Pepper’s hallucination without the LSD. I wanted it to go

on and I certainly could have sat through it twice. It was totally worth the

exposure to all the neon.

When it was over, I saw a frizzy haired middle-aged woman mouthing

the words and bobbing her head to “Lady Madonna” as the song ushered

the crowd out of the theatre. Suddenly, I felt territorial and possessive. Who

was this strange woman singing the words that were so familiar to me? How

could she possibly comprehend my personal collision and how deep it cut.

Then I reconsidered. Maybe I had it all wrong and anyone who ever fell

feels exactly the same, even, perhaps, my daughter.

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