In my opinion, the best concert you can hope to attend

The best band in history, The Beatles, only played in Vegas one time. It was in the Sahara Theater in the Sahara Hotel & Casino. I was born in 1984, long after The Beatles had stopped being a band, but I swear I was there.

Justin and I get there way early, mostly because of his thing where he has to be, not only on time, but early everywhere. The doors aren’t even open yet. I impatiently squeeze his hand and drink most of the soda we are supposed to share. We study other fans that are milling as well, waiting to get inside and take their seats. We whisper to each about their funny outfits or expressions, not to be mean or cruel but just to enjoy their character and uniqueness.

Those two big blue doors finally open and we are the first ones inside. A single usher looks at our tickets and shows us to our seats, calmly asking everyone else in line to wait until he comes back. Justin and I watch people, from all walks of life, file in and sit down. Most stop off at the bar to get drinks. The drink glasses have lights in the bottom, which slowly cycles through colors. A light green melts into blue and blue melts into red. It makes the drinks psychedelic. Justin finishes the soda in the bottom of our plastic cup and lets go of my hand to set it on the concrete floor.

As the theater begins to fill, they play music over the speakers, most of which I’ve never heard before. I lean on Justin’s shoulder, listening to the melodies and trying to be patient. A woman sits beside me and she smells old, like mothballs and wet newspaper. She’s wearing a bright red flowered silk shirt, black capri jeans, and gold sandals. Her husband is heavy and balding. They are just as excited as we are. Her gold jewelry jangles as she reaches up to smooth her black hair back. Her husband leaves to get drinks.

“I bet we’re the youngest people in here,” Justin says in my ear. I look around.

“I think you’re right,” I whisper, but I notice excitement throbbing from everyone in the theater, even the old fogies.

There are Beatles facts scrolling across two huge screens on either side of the stage like, “The Beatles had 21 number 1 singles in the US and 17 in the UK,” and “Both the 1964 single Can’t Buy Me Love and the self-titled album in 1968 sold 2 million copies within the first week,” and “73 million viewers—approximately 40% of the US population at the time—tuned in to watch the Beatles perform at the Ed Sullivan Show on February 9, 1964.” Justin reads each one to me. We talk about the ones we already knew and the ones that are fresh news. There is anticipation buzzing over our heads. Overhead lights dim and the babble quiets a little. People start turning the lights on the bottom of their glasses off, making the venue slip slowly into darkness.

The curtain is still lowered when Ed Sullivan walks out on stage in front of it. The talking turns to whispers and then to silence. Ed is wearing a dark green suit and shiny black shoes. His hair is perfectly parted on one side and slicked down and back. He appears to be squinting out at us, his eyes tight but sparkling. His posture is distinctively him but it still looks awkward from where I’m sitting, about 15 rows back. His shoulders are hunched way up to his cheeks, making his neck disappear, like a dark green turtle waiting halfway in its shell. He nods to the audience with his entire upper body before speaking.

“I’d like to welcome you all to the show,” Ed says, his voice easily projected in the small theater venue, but show sounds like shew, “and we’ve got a great shew for you all tonight. The Beatles are here.” As Ed speaks, his body awkwardly shimmies a little, his shoulders swishing back and forth. He waits for the clapping to dispel, and then the curtain starts to rise and overwhelming sound emits from behind it.

Suddenly, I’m staring at my favorite band, The Beatles, like I never thought I would be able to. Ringo, George, Paul, and John. They’re all here and they immediately start singing Love Me Do. The audience is almost singing over Paul, as they sing along. I’m clinging to Justin, in awe. I glance at him for a second and his eyes are wide in surprise.

I love the young bowl haircuts and the nicely tailored matching suits. When the song ends, Paul leans into the microphone to welcome us all, “well, hello everybody, it’s really nice to see you all,” in the British accent that makes the girls swoon. His hair is thicker than the other Beatles, and it swoops back in curls.

George is playfully waving and smiling and nodding into the crowd, like he knows us personally. As he plays guitar in songs like 8 Days a Week and I Want to Hold Your Hand, he is constantly moving his feet in a light dancing motion; it’s like an automatic twitch.

Even later, when they come out on stage with long Jesus hair and they’re wearing multi-colored suits that look high, they are all still ubiquitously The Beatles. During Twist, they implore us all to get up and dance. I think I enjoy watching a white-haired old man in a brown suit sway stiffly back and forth in the row in front of us more than I enjoy twisting myself.

Next thing I know, we are all settling down for the sweet and sincere Yesterday, which Paul sings all alone, just him and his guitar. As I’m listening, I can’t believe the song was originally supposed to be titled Scrambled Eggs. The concert is blurring by, songs I’ve known and loved are suddenly alive with meaning.

I’m staring at The Beatles and yet, I know today is February 16, 2008. John Lennon was murdered on the street in 1980. George Harrison died of cancer in 2001. Ringo Starr and Paul McCartney are retired, their faces much older and lined now. That must mean I’m looking into the past.

I’m actually watching The Fab Four, four guys who have made a career out of impersonating The Beatles. They play here, the only venue The Beatles played at in Vegas, every night of the week. Justin and I stumble out of the Sahara Theater, still drunk on nostalgia.

But there’s that image that keeps coming back to me. It’s John Lennon, in a white suit with bell-bottom pants, sitting at a piano singing Imagine:

You may say I'm a dreamer

But I'm not the only one

I hope someday you'll join us

And the world will be as one


And then, suddenly, breaking character for a minute, the Lennon impersonator stops playing. He talks about how John Lennon was his hero, and how he’s blessed to sing his songs. The audience is connected for those few moments. Streams of pure energy flow like electricity through us all.

When we get home late and cold we hurriedly slip into bed, and I can still feel it. The energy zipping through everyone in the room and the understanding about the songs seems crystal clear. Justin drapes his heavy arm over me and immediately slips into sleep, dreaming of John’s wild hair and purple glasses, hopefully.