Oddly enough, I didn’t see anything locally about this on Wednesday, and I skipped it because I figured it would get lots of coverage. So here we go, a day late:
Ringo Starr has celebrated his 70th birthday [Wednesday] in New York surrounded by his wife Barbara Bach, family, and good friends….’I feel good,’ Starr said. ‘I’m still standing, I’m still playing, I’m touring, so it’s good.’
The only thing the former Beatle wants for his birthday? ‘Peace and love, everybody,’ he told Entertainment Tonight.
Starr went on to say he wanted everyone to send out “positive thoughts” to help make the world a better place. — MonstersandCritics.com
There are two schools of thought on Ringo. One is that he was a talented and innovative artist whose unique style complemented the most revolutionary and original musicians of their generation. The other holds that he is the luckiest man in the world, a ten-thumbed schlubb who could barely keep a beat, and who got and kept his job because he lacked the sort of ego that might insinuate itself into the other Beatles’ act.
I’ll take Door #2, Monty.
Like most musicians back then, I listened to and picked apart every Beatles composition – McCartney taught me a lot about playing bass – and Ringo’s beats struck me as pedestrian and uninspired. Any number of his contemporaries demonstrated greater insight and technique. He didn’t screw things up, but added so little as to become a negligible appendage.
The luckiest man in the world, even today.
But so what? He was a Beatle, one of the two remaining (the two lefties – interesting, yes?), and for what it’s worth, he’s still making music the way he did back then: surrounded by talented creative professionals with whom he somehow manages to keep up. And if it’s nothing I want to listen to, it’s nice to know it’s still happening.
Happy birthday, old sod.