Sex, Drugs & Heavy Orchestration

by Rachelle Bergstein

You’ve just turned 14.

You and your mother are fighting non-stop because your grades aren’t good enough; you tried wearing lipstick to school; you refuse to stop eating pizza at 4 and ruining your dinner. She’s in school too, getting her PhD, and she’s been locked in her office night after night studying (putting you to shame, actually, because you only study insofar as you glance at your textbooks and hope your reliable memory and reasonable intellect will do the work for you). You can’t remember the last time you spent quality time together but then suddenly, a 3-part documentary comes on TV that bridges the gap, appealing to your curiosity about the past and nascent love of vintage clothing, and her sense of 60s and 70s nostalgia…

It was The Beatles’ Anthology. For 3 nights you two lay side-by-side in her bed, glued to the television. You’re boning up on your music history and she’s corroborating the stories, saying things like “Aunt Patty was at that concert” or “I had shoes just like that.” For 3 nights you, as a young bitchy teenager, and your single mother, overworked and probably scared out of her mind, have everything in common. It’s like the old days when you and she used to watch black and white movies together, her giving you these pop-culture clues to her past.

You weren’t the only ones to enjoy Anthology, and everyone bought the double album. After the series was over, things went back to normal, with you and your mother living alongside one another in confusing alienation, quickly forgetting those moments when you spoke the same language.

About a year later, you start smoking pot. You discover recreational drugs via your best friend, and one night, after a bowl, and some giggling, and a fair amount of snacks, you go up to her room and she puts on the instrumental version of Eleanor Rigby.

Her room always smells like candles and body spray. Her bed is covered in pillows. She’s hands-down one of the most interesting people you’ve ever met, with her exotic Arabian eyes and anti-authority streak (stemming from her own experience of parental distance, no doubt). She lies down on the bed and you both listen to the song in silence. She confesses that she’s been playing it over and over, and meanderingly, she tries to explain what’s so powerful about it:

“I don’t know,” she says, closing her eyes. “It’s like I’m having sex with God.”

Nevermind that neither one of you has had sex. Nevermind that logistically, this sounds nuts. This is by far the deepest thing you’ve ever heard anyone say and you close your eyes too, wondering if you’ll ever be that fascinating, if you’ll ever hear a song that brings you so close to godliness.

Sexually.

The instrumental version of Eleanor Rigby, off of 1995’s Anthology, is really beautiful. But sadly, it still doesn’t make me feel like I’m getting down with the big man up in heaven.