I’m warning you
with Peace and Love that Ringo Starr's 77 today.
It’s
extraordinary to think the most underrated Beatle is pushing eighty,
particularly when he’s looked the same for a good decade or so; it seems
constantly wearing sunglasses and that closely-cropped beard since the late-1980s
has paid off. He’s a man who provokes frustration as, despite once seeming the most amenable Fab, these days he’s very hard to like; it’s as
if he felt it necessary to take Lennon’s brashness after he passed away, along
with his iconoclastic nature, famously slamming his old home town Liverpool,
his fans for requesting signed pictures and often putting Paul in his
place.
While I find it
hard to warm to modern-day Ringo, there’s one thing I know for certain: the
suggestion he wasn’t a good drummer is a myth. His playing is about as
distinctive as it gets; it wouldn’t matter what kit he's behind, you’d always
know it’s him, yet for some reason he always gets a bad rap. There are
countless examples of finally-nuanced playing, from the more the obvious tracks like She
Said She Said, Rain or A Day in The Life to the less
mentioned
performances on In My Life, Birthday and I Want You (She’s So Heavy). His
time-keeping is impeccable (look at all those live performances in the face of
the jumbo-jet-engine roar of Beatlemania, when he often couldn’t hear John,
Paul and George’s playing, yet never missed a beat) - and anyway, good playing
isn’t always about being flash (though he can do that when he wants), it’s
about playing what’s right, and Ringo’s
always done that.
So, despite
finding his persona slightly dickish, I’ll still raise a metaphorical glass:
Happy Birthday Ringo; here’s hoping the blisters you had in '68 went down.