He moved next to me and flashed a compulsory peace sign as his publicist snapped our photo. “Everybody does it,” she said, and then handed me a white “peace and love” bracelet as a parting gift. Starr flashed another peace sign—a double this time.
Okay, end of disclosure. From here on, this will be a sober and detached treatment of a seminal figure in the history of popular music. (Also: The photo can be viewed on my Instagram.)
Ringo Starr is 84 years old and has lived quite an extraordinary life. I realize I am late to this story.
He is among the most scrutinized, fetishized, analyzed, and catechized people in history. I admit to feeling out of my depth, if this was not already clear. Usually, I write about politics. I am not accustomed to interacting with Beatles. As opposed to, say, congressmen.
That first day I met him, Starr had a new record to promote—a solo record, it still feels necessary to say. I had been granted a brief slot on his schedule around the release of
Crooked Boy, a four-track collection that features the Strokes’ guitarist Nick Valensi. Starr had a packed interview dance card, with a procession of podcasters, YouTubers, and other species that didn’t exist when he and his Liverpool mates first started doing this, back when America’s chief influencer was Ed Sullivan.
Starr greeted me with a light fist bump, in keeping with his hypervigilance about avoiding germs.
“You might be one of the most-interviewed people in the world,” I felt the need to say.
“I am,” he confirmed.
I wondered how I could make this interesting. “Well, just make it short,” Starr suggested, as we headed out onto the patio adjacent to his suite.
“So, how short?” I asked. “Like, three minutes, two minutes?”
“You can have the whole three!” Starr said, and then punctuated his sentence, as he punctuates many of his sentences, with a dry and devilish giggle. Four quick “hah”s jackhammered in succession. He tends to speak in quips, toggling between his two dominant modes, seen-it-all sarcasm and glib nonchalance.
Born Richard Starkey, he became Sir Richard Starkey when he was knighted in 2018. I asked his excellency whether I should address him as “Ringo” or “Richard” (or “Richie,” as intimates call him). “You’ll call me Ringo, because I don’t know you,” he said. “A-hah-hah-hah-hah.”
“My family don’t call me that,” he added.
After a few minutes, the publicist started gesturing in my direction. I feared this was the universal “wrap it up” sign, but no, false alarm (she was just trying to get a photographer’s attention). “This is longer than three minutes, you know,” Starr took the opportunity to observe, affecting a sneer. Or maybe he was not affecting it.
Starr looks remarkably well maintained for his age. This is a testament to the preservative power of his fitness regimen, strict sobriety, a vegetarian diet, and lots of hair dye. He is also one of those rare figures whose face has been such a fixture of our cultural lives for so long that his actual, three-dimensional presence in front of you elicits a double take. Is this the genuine cargo or some wiry wisp of a Ringo impersonator?
It feels perfectly suitable to describe him as “looking exactly like Ringo Starr” and expect to be understood. He has the shaped beard, the little red shades, and a peace-sign pendant on a necklace. He appears just as he has in countless pop-art pieces and wax museums, and that
Simpsons episode in which Starr, playing himself, turns out to be Marge’s artistic muse.
Everyone scurrying in and out of Ringo’s suite looks famous, or almost famous. They include a swarm of well-wishers and maybe some actual friends whom Starr has gotten by with a little help from. I was struck by how Starr’s presence arouses giddiness even in other rock stars. Valensi told me that when people hear that he worked with Starr, they tend to transform into elated teenagers. “Everybody who I tell that to is just so phenomenally either excited for me, or is baffled, and kind of questioning,
How did that happen? ” he said. “My wife and my mom, and my sisters, and even close friends who are musicians—everybody just kind of wants to know what the whole thing was like.”
People who spotted Starr moving through the Sunset Marquis kept shouting out “Peace and love” at him. This of course has been Starr’s personal mantra, greeting, and aloha for most of his post-Beatles decades.
“Peace and love, peace and love,” Starr said back to a cluster of onlookers, sounding cheerfully bored. At one point, I watched Starr pause and puff out his cheeks into an ostentatious deep breath. I imagine that’s one of the hassles of immortality: It tends to go on forever.
I have always been a Ringo guy. This was true long before the Fab Four were reduced to an antique duo of Starr and Paul McCartney, now 82. Starr had seven straight top-10 singles after the Beatles broke up, and those early solo tracks were among the first pop songs I remember hearing on the radio when I was a kid. “It Don’t Come Easy” was released in 1971, when I was 6, and played in heavy rotation on the local pop station, WRKO-AM, Boston. It was one of my first favorite songs.
Starr always seemed like the friendliest and most life-size of the four Beatles. The others felt less accessible than the droopy-eyed drummer with the cartoon-cowboy name and childlike tunes. Ringo was yellow submarines and octopus gardens, the mascot little brother, despite being the eldest Beatle, and the best at flittering above the feuds that afflicted the trio of geniuses around him.
Starr was the fastest to comic relief and most averse to pretension in any form. “There you go, hiding behind a smoke screen of bourgeois clichés,” he says in Richard Lester’s 1964 comedy,
A Hard Day’s Night, after a stagehand has accused Starr of being “rather arbitrary” for not letting him touch his drum kit. I latched on to this line immediately. In high school, when certain highfalutin friends would try out their fancy SAT words, I would tell them, “There you go, hiding behind a smoke screen of bourgeois clichés.” (Admittedly, this itself was rather arbitrary on my part.)
“He’s the most sympathetic of all the Beatles,” T Bone Burnett, the legendary producer and guitarist, told me. When I spoke with him, Burnett had just produced a new Starr record, a country album called
Look Up, which came out in January and has since become one of the biggest hits of his solo career. “Nobody has generated more goodwill than Ringo,” Burnett added. “Not a single person in the world.”
by Mark Leibovich, The Atlantic |
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Image: Dina Litovsky