For use: Friday, December 8, 2000 and thereafter

mfinley: "Don't Bother Me"

by Michael Finley

Copyright (c) 2000 by Michael Finley

Every night in the spring of 1964, I lay awake in bed, listening to the Beatles Hour on WHK in Cleveland. That's how I first heard an early Beatles song, "Don’t Bother Me." It quickly became my absolute favorite, for reasons I have only recently begun to understand.

A George Harrison vehicle -- his first -- the song was noteworthy for its sullenness. Harrison, doubletracking to cover a shaky voice, sang to a ringing tremelo guitar line: "So go away, leave me alone, don't bother me."

That was the entire message of the song. And while it was not a great song, like some other Beatle songs, it made a kind of psychic splash for being so downcast. The Beatles were generally an upbeat band -- they had much to be upbeat about -- but this song was downright peevish. Harrison was saying he was in so much pain (his baby having rejected him) that he preferred being left behind to stew to joining in with false pleasantness.

The song touched people in places they had never been touched before. Overnight, a sullen industry blossomed. Rock bands with displeased faces began showing up in the racks -- the Animals, the Yardbirds, the Stones singing "I Can't Get No Satisfaction." The world suddenly awoke to the joy of behaving unpleasantly.

The attitude snuck up on us. Garbo hinted at it, wanting to be alone. It was apparent in Elvis's sneer, minus the mama's boy act. James Dean was probably the first to get it absolutely right: "You can’t possibly understand my pain."

The icon of World War II was the good guy, the mensch, Kilroy, the fellow willing to suffer untold torment, and come back smiling. It's the square archetype of that era -- the positive person who extends a hearty handshake even when his heart has reason to break. He's courageous, but he's a phony.

This was a pivotal development in postmodern culture. For thousands of years, men wooed women by displaying a cheerful willingness to put up with endless pain, in order to be included. But that ancient deal was now off. No more mensches, the rock stars and movie stars and literary stars were saying. The message from now on is, I'm aggrieved, I'm entitled to a bad attitude, so get the hell outta my way.

To the Kilroys of the world, locked into an outmoded mode, the mask of the salesman, the new way looked like a generation of spoiled brats. What have they got to kick about? They didn’t have to wait out the Depression, or slog through Guadalcanal. I'll never forget Dean Martin dissing the Rolling Stones, drink in hand, on his variety show.

What's it all mean? It means that much of society has traded one defense mechanism (the stiff upper lip) for another (the curled lip). The former seems a whole lot more adult, but former things usually do.

How does a society deal with a fashionable attitude? The same way it always had, by requiring disclosure. What exactly is the source of your grief? How determined are you to remain unhappy, even if your circumstances should markedly improve? How willing are you to prevent circumstances from improving, if such improvement should imperil your attitude? What is the net gain of a negative attitude? I know the answer is "honesty," but is it really honest?

When we think about the future, there's a tendency to fantasize about machines and hairstyles. But the big changes from age to age usually involve conceptualizing more than technology. An vital tool for comprehending the future is clarity to challenge attitudes that may be legitimate, or may be not be. But you can’t know unless you ask.

Of course, to ask these questions, we have to care enough about one another to bother one another.

 

With The Beatles, by The Beatles

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