4chan is down

Well, what now?

MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOT

>using a site with shitty servers

The elven warlock was drunk. Again. From his vantage point across the bear skinned rug from her, the old orc soldier could see the cross-eyed gaze and glazed over eyes. The young woman's platinum hair was tossing around as she swung her head in exaggerated drunken laughter. At this point, anything he said sent her into fits of giggles. He smiled and stroked his beard, knowing it wouldn't be long now. Soon, he knew, his guild mistress would be nearly incapacitated. And he would have to take her to her home.

He was right, it wasn't long at all before he had her unconscious form slung over his shoulder and he was making his way through the civilized streets of the floating mage city to the portals that would take him to his lady's own elven-made city in the eastern kingdoms. He stepped into the glowing portal, felt the cool flicker of magick enveloping him and his lightweight companion, then he was stepping onto the lush red carpets of the noble's quarter. The limp form over his shoulder didn't stir as he moved down the sloping ramp and into the more civilian areas of the city.

The old orc looked around him as he walked slowly over the white marble stones. His gait was an almost awkward-seeming waddle, belying his true skills as a mercenary and killer. His arms were typical for an orc, thick and longer than other more upright races such as the elves he typically fought next to. His skin was a dark shade of grayish green, and was riddled with scars under his stiff dark leather and plate armor. The top third of his head was bare of hair but a good mop of peppery white-gray fluffed up around the back of his head and came to his shoulders. He had no mustache but his beard was long, braided at the end to keep it out of his way. He was well muscled for an orc, but he was also more aged than other orcs he had yet seen since his rebirth.

Many, many years ago, the orc had died in service to his lord and king. After his death as a hero, he had been reawakened and put into service under a lord of Death and Destruction. Only recently had he and many others in that very army been released from nearly mindless servitude and allowed to come 'home', as it were. But things had changed, and his people had changed. Though he didn't feel as unwelcome as he had originally, he still felt awkward and uncomfortable, as if he didn't really belong. As if this wasn't truly his home anymore, this land of the living. And the orcs he knew were all so young, ignorant. Innocent even.

As he made his way through some of the darker streets of the town, he hefted the girl over his shoulder more, adjusting her there. Soon he was making his way across the public bazaar and up the steps to one of the general goods stores that the city had. A small ramp lead up along one curved wall of the building, to a platform supported by stone at the back of the store. The platform was small, circular, and contained a bed and a table, nothing more. The table had a few personal items on it, making it obvious that this was his guild mistress's home; silver brush and matching hand mirror, a pearl necklace and some miscellaneous magickal items were scattered on the table top. The bed itself was a round mattress in a hidden frame, with blue sheets and blankets. Sheer blue curtains were attached to a single point in the ceiling above the bed, and draped down on all sides of the curved frame except for the foot of the bed. The platform itself was separated from the rest of the quiet store by pink sheers hung from golden hooks in the ceiling; there was not much privacy here but at this hour, no one else was around and the city was quite deserted.

The orc bent over and dropped his lady onto the mattress, where she flopped awkwardly onto her side. She was sprawled with limbs and clothing in disarray, and as he looked down at her, he pondered her vulnerability. Anyone could walk in right now and take full advantage of her in this condition. Her stiff leather dress would only serve to cover her so much. And she hadn't even changed her breathing as he had dropped her to the bed. She was completely unconscious.

He rubbed his chin and tugged on his beard braid. His two tusks, jutting out from his bottom lip, did nothing to diminish the wicked grin that slowly cut his face in the darkness. And he slowly began to remove his own armor, piece by piece, dropping them loudly to the floor as if to see if this would wake her. She did not stir.

As he stared down at her, unfastening the bindings on his breastplate and unbuckling his belt, he took in the rare beauty before him. Her hair was the colour of pale silken ribbons, or snow gleaming with a sheen of gold from a wintry setting sun. Her skin was like smooth freshly churned butter, almost a pure ivory white in colour. She kept her lips painted red, and some thought they were more stained from wine than from her custom-made lip rouge. Her eyes were typically lined and shadowed with a kohl colour, black on the lower edge, smoky on the lid. A sultry paint job, he thought, grinning as he reached down and rolled her onto her back.

Reaching down, he found her shoes came off very easily, and he tossed them to the side. Her weapons belt was slender and of good design, sturdy but fashionable of course. He put it aside as well, slightly relieved now that she was quite defenseless. If she woke just now, she would have nothing sharp at hand, and that made him feel a bit more comfortable. He pulled her mantle off rather gruffly, then her gloves and bracers. Then he rolled her onto her side, one hand holding her there while the other fussed with the clasps to undo her cape. That too joined the growing pile on the floor. He was finding himself getting more and more clumsy as every piece of armor came off. He hadn't realized how very exciting it could be to undress an unconscious warlock of her power. And he was finding out he wasn't very patient at all.

Soon all that was left was her dress. It was a stiff material made to withstand at least the subtle blows of battle, and made to rebuff various types of magick and spell casting. The fastenings at the back of her neck were easily undone. He put a knee between her thighs and leaned over her on the bed, his thick fingers peeling the dress over her shoulders. And he gasped lightly as her white skin became more and more evident. She was so pale, like cream. He gently drew her dress down to her waist, pulling her arms free and letting them flop back to the mattress above her head. And he reached out with both hands to touch and grope at her breasts. His smile was big and broad as he relished the feel of her tits in his hands, rolling them around and around.

She still hadn't stirred or made any sort of waking noises. Part of him wondered if she was faking being asleep. Maybe she was afraid to show she was awake, for fear of what he might do then. Would he be forced to violence to keep her quiet, if she screamed in objection? Or maybe she was enjoying it. He wondered at that, wondered what he would feel if he knew somehow that she were awake. In the end he decided it didn't matter. She was as good as dead, except that she was so lovely warm in his hands. He pulled her dress lower, marveling at the rise and fall of her ribcage, the soft slope of her body down to her belly button.

Moving his mouth over her was no easy task. His tusks prevented him from actually kissing her. But nothing stopped his fat tongue from snaking out and circling each of her nipples. He watched close up as the areolas became stiff and peaked, erect. Then he used his lips to pluck at them, tug at them. And then his teeth. Experimentally, he squeezed one breast tightly in his strong grip, then opened his mouth wide and mashed as much in as possible. He was able to take a great deal of the soft breast into his mouth and lips, his teeth biting down. In her sleep, his guild mistress seemed to whimper, but was it pleasure or pain? He couldn't tell and didn't really care. The orc was far too far gone to stop now.

He reached a hand down and opened his leggings up more. Then he pulled his thick cock out and began to stroke himself. His dick was a thick wonder, surely bigger than any elven cock but also vastly fatter. He pictured what it would look like if he was fucking this beautiful elven woman, pounding into what must surely be one of the tightest pussies he'd ever seen. He couldn't remember ever having had sex before, wasn't even sure he had before tonight. But being near this unconscious and incredibly sexy woman was making it all come back; his body was remembering even if his brain couldn't. He knew what to do with what parts, knew how to please himself by using her flesh how he wanted. And right now, memory was telling him he wanted more.

It was by force that he pulled his mouth off her other breast, leaving long wet trails of slobber all over the pristine unmarked skin. With both hands he drew the dress down off her hips and down her legs, making his eyes look away from her nether regions until he was really ready. When the dress was a part of the pile of armor next to the bed, he finally let himself turn his gaze back to the sleeping beauty.

The open buildings of the city of elves were always lit, even during the nighttime hours when the merchants had gone home and the inner lights were dimmed or doused altogether. The floating planters and light braziers in the streets filtered in a soft dull and constant glow that now was coming through the pink curtains and lighting the bed up just enough for the old orc's eyes to see what was before him. He drooled uncontrollably, wiping his chin with the back of his hand slowly as he stared at his guild leader. She was sprawled so haphazardly on the bed, head turned to one side as if she had no care in the world. Her hair was fanned out above her head on the blue sheets, and her knees had collapsed to one side. He reached out with his fingers and gripped one leg, drawing her knees apart. And now his eyes took in her true treasure. Her mons was bald, hairless due to her incredibly detailed sense of fashion; indeed all the other elven women were sporting hairless pussies and so she must have one as well. Her cleft pulled itself open slightly as he pushed the leg further apart from its twin, a shadowy blush showing on her outer labia. She might be completely unconscious but some part of her brain was encouraging her body to react to his ministrations.

The elder orc knelt down at the end of the bed, his hands instinctively sliding under the unconscious woman's thighs and cupping her firm and round bottom in his palms. He lifted her up towards his questing mouth as he dipped his head lower between her legs, and soon his lips and tongue were making contact with that sweet sex. He flicked his tongue against her, telling himself he would go slowly but quickly realizing he simply couldn't. He no longer had the patience for such things, and felt like a boy again, discovering the other gender's private parts for the first time. He didn't tend to her folds like an anxious-to-please lover; instead he dove in with his tongue, forcibly finding her entry and pushing inside, tasting her deeply. He twisted and turned it inside her, thrusting it in and out, fucking her with it as his tusks mashed her labia majora aside. He devoured her pussy, gladly smearing her juices all over his cheeks and beard until he was dripping wet and practically drinking her nectar, she flowed so easily in her sleep. And he only stopped when he felt that ache in his groin again, the one that said there was to be more to tonight than just exploration of her perfect slender form.

He drew himself up off his knees, pushing his leggings down to his ankles, then kicking them off. Standing over her, slightly hunched, he gripped his cock in one hand and stroked himself as he placed his knees on the bed between hers. He wanted to make sure he was as hard as could be when he entered her. And he wanted to watch, every inch of it, as he put himself inside her for the first and probably only time. The orc put the head of his incredibly thick cock against her privacy, the folds denting in and turning dark colours as they became more and more engorged with blood. His dick was still darker than her sex, and he groaned as he released himself, the stiffness of his erection keeping him in place. He put one meaty hand on each of her shins, and bent her legs back towards her body until they were pressed hard over her tits. Then, at last, he was ready.

He felt every aching inch of his cock as he entered her. He moved as slowly as he could manage, without causing himself to cum immediately. He wanted the feeling of her pussy sucking him inside to last forever, but when he looked down and took in the sight of her sex being forced open by his cock, of his dark meat disappearing into her cunt, he almost came on the spot. He forced himself to look away, and just focus on the feeling, but his eyes were inevitably drawn back down again. Her sex was perfect, a true lady's pussy, cleaned and washed ever before his questing tongue had touched it. And now it was being violated by the impossible thickness of his cock, the cock of an old orc soldier. The idea of it was amazing to him. The feeling was so much more.

Slowly he pushed himself to the hilt, never expecting he could hit bottom. But he felt it, felt himself butting up against her womb, she was that small inside. He was buried almost to the hilt but wanted more, pushed harder until he felt her outer folds stretching against the fur of his groin. Only then did he begin to withdraw, again going as slowly as possible. He moaned loudly at feeling of her pussy pulling off his cock, and looked down just as the head of his dick fell out of her cunt. He was slickened now, completely wet, gleaming in the night light. He adjusted himself and pushed himself back inside, this time with a different intention. He was firm. He was brutal. And he forced his cock harder into her this time.

She did not wake, she did not stir, she did not even whimper. His gentle fucking became rougher, more brutal, as he leaned over her. Her legs were pinned to her chest by his weight now, his own barrel-shaped torso heavy over her tiny body as he drove his hips repeatedly against her and pulled away. He was growling, he couldn't help himself. He put one hand out to her chest, gruffly squeezing one of the jiggling white tits in his grasp, almost twisting it as he continued to thrust against her. He could feel his climax coming, and he wanted to watch if he could. He licked the side of her face, noticing how her mouth was slightly agape. Then he leaned back again, turning her so her hips were slightly twisted onto one side. One leg he draped over his shoulder, the other he wrapped around his body as he lifted her up to his cock. She was almost folded at the waist, her legs around him as he fucked her sideways. The new position offered further stimulation as he butted up against her womb again. He moved his hand down the thigh of the leg on his shoulder, slipping over her hip. Then he was cupping her ass. And then he was fingering it, mercilessly shoving a fat finger into her pucker as he fucked her harder, faster. Ruthlessly.

His cock was ready to explode. He pulled back slightly, barely managing to pull out from her body as he began to cum. Stroking himself, he poured the rest of his seed out onto her body as he dropped her legs from around him and let her tumble limply to the bed. His cum coated her tits, her stomach, her thighs, as he carelessly pointed it no where in particular, his fat fist moving up and down furiously. His head was back and his eyes were closed. And it took almost every effort he could muster to keep from howling madly. The city might be deserted looking for the most part but he knew there were always guards, always people around. He didn't want to have them come rushing in and seeing him like this. An old grayed orc man jerking off over the perfectly defiled body of an unconscious elf. That wouldn't be in his best interests at all.

The last spurts of cum shot from him, landing in puddles on her ribs and slipping down to the mattress. He panted and watched, noting that her breathing hadn't changed all this time. She was still incredibly unconscious, oblivious to what had just happened. He could almost feel himself getting hard again but knew that whatever other fantasies he might have, that were begging to be fulfilled, would have to wait. Until some other time.

Carefully he got dressed, refastening his armor over his aching body. He hadn't felt so good in so long. Sitting on the end of the bed and adjusting his shin guards over his leggings, he smiled wistfully as he glanced at her over his shoulder armor. The least he could do was cover her up, he supposed. And so he did, drawing the blankets over her cum-coated skin and shrugging.

There would be questions tomorrow, he knew. How much would she remember? She'd passed out on the rug, in his lap. And she would likely not remember about a half hour before that time. Plenty of time to fabricate a story about someone else taking advantage of her weakness. But who had seen him carry her into the city of elves, from the city of mages? Anyone? Would she dare to approach anyone when she woke up and was coated in the seed from some strange man?

Laughing, he walked down the ramp from her sleeping platform and out of the store. Who cares, ultimately, he thought. She'd be too ashamed to talk to anyone about what happened. So she'd never ask questions he'd rather no one answered. The orc waddled through the bazaar and smiled softly in the shadows as he found a room at the inn, not far away.

She was a drinker. These things happened, he thought to himself, shrugging. And if he was a lucky old orc, it would happen again.

I want to post QR codes in the AC thread, I have the one the OP wants

Check my dubs

">text boards
">2013

le euphoric face

Let's play a game while we wait for moot to fix this shit.
I'm thinking of a number between HL3 and 3.3 Million Dollars.
How long will it take for Notch to make Float?

Yotsuba Image Board

>>58
about tree fiddy

tfw no gf

oh god help

>>58
about as long as it takes for SQUAD to update a game

One hour has passed on the first day of downtime.

i got the fever

Check these dubs

>>66
nice dubs but check this 7

>>67
Check my 8

Ate my 8;

69 get :^)

>>65
aye aye

>>68
Fuck you

>>70
lel

How bout dat vidya?

The fact that so many books still name the Beatles "the greatest or most significant or most influential" rock band ever only tells you how far rock music still is from becoming a serious art. Jazz critics have long recognized that the greatest jazz musicians of all times are Duke Ellington and John Coltrane, who were not the most famous or richest or best sellers of their times, let alone of all times. Classical critics rank the highly controversial Beethoven over classical musicians who were highly popular in courts around Europe. Rock critics are still blinded by commercial success: the Beatles sold more than anyone else (not true, by the way), therefore they must have been the greatest. Jazz critics grow up listening to a lot of jazz music of the past, classical critics grow up listening to a lot of classical music of the past. Rock critics are often totally ignorant of the rock music of the past, they barely know the best sellers. No wonder they will think that the Beatles did anything worth of being saved.

In a sense the Beatles are emblematic of the status of rock criticism as a whole: too much attention to commercial phenomena (be it grunge or U2) and too little attention to the merits of real musicians. If somebody composes the most divine music but no major label picks him up and sells him around the world, a lot of rock critics will ignore him. If a major label picks up a musician who is as stereotyped as one can be but launches her or him worldwide, your average critic will waste rivers of ink on her or him. This is the sad status of rock criticism: rock critics are basically publicists working for free for major labels, distributors and record stores. They simply publicize what the music business wants to make money with.

Hopefully, one not-too-distant day, there will be a clear demarcation between a great musician like Tim Buckley, who never sold much, and commercial products like the Beatles. And rock critics will study more of rock history and realize who invented what and who simply exploited it commercially.

Beatles' "aryan" music removed any trace of black music from rock and roll: it replaced syncopated african rhythm with linear western melody, and lusty negro attitudes with cute white-kid smiles.

Contemporary musicians never spoke highly of the Beatles, and for a good reason. They could not figure out why the Beatles' songs should be regarded more highly than their own. They knew that the Beatles were simply lucky to become a folk phenomenon (thanks to "Beatlemania", which had nothing to do with their musical merits). THat phenomenon kept alive interest in their (mediocre) musical endeavours to this day. Nothing else grants the Beatles more attention than, say, the Kinks or the Rolling Stones. There was nothing intrinsically better in the Beatles' music. Ray Davies of the Kinks was certainly a far better songwriter than Lennon & McCartney. The Stones were certainly much more skilled musicians than the 'Fab Fours'. And Pete Townshend was a far more accomplished composer, capable of "Tommy" and "Quadrophenia". Not to mention later and far greater British musicians. Not to mention the American musicians who created what the Beatles later sold to the masses.

The Beatles sold a lot of records not because they were the greatest musicians but simply because their music was easy to sell to the masses: it had no difficult content, it had no technical innovations, it had no creative depth. They wrote a bunch of catchy 3-minute ditties and they were photogenic. If somebody had not invented "beatlemania" in 1963, you would not have wasted five minutes of your time to read a page about such a trivial band.

Note of 2010. The Beatles were not a terribly interesting band, but their fans were and still are an interesting phenomenon. I can only name religious fundamentalists as annoying (and as threatening) as Beatles fans and as persevering in sabotaging anyone who dares express an alternative opinion on their faith. They have turned me into some kind of Internet celebrity not because of the 6,000 bios that i have written, not because of the 800-page book that i published, not because of 30 years of cultural events that i organized, but simply because i downplayed the artistic merits of the Beatles, an action that they seem to consider as disgraceful as the 2001 terrorist attacks.

Jakub Krawczynski sent me this comment in 2010:
I find it quite amusing that almost all of the Beatles songs have their own entries on wikipedia (nothing wrong with that in itself, actually), even if they are not singles, and each of them is meticulously dissected as if there were transcendental suites exceeding human comprehension, yet bands like Faust or Red Krayola, etc. have biographies even shorter than just one article about any random Beatles song. Needless to say, none of their songs have any articles on them, yet I'm sure there would be a lot more to talk about. Moreover, if you had put any bad review of their album on the site with the intention to show the broader scope of opinions, you'd risk your "life" there, since such fanatics don't accept any single sign of trying to be objective. You are seen as public enemy number 1 to them. It's like your article is one giant cognitive dissonance to them and vandalizing your bio was the only way to reduce this dissonance.

PS I'm gay lol

The Beatles most certainly belong to the history of the 60s, but their musical merits are at best dubious.

The Beatles came to be at the height of the reaction against rock and roll, when the innocuous "teen idols", rigorously white, were replacing the wild black rockers who had shocked the radio stations and the conscience of half of America. Their arrival represented a lifesaver for a white middle class terrorized by the idea that within rock and roll lay a true revolution of customs. The Beatles tranquilized that vast section of people and conquered the hearts of all those (first and foremost the females) who wanted to rebel without violating the societal status quo. The contorted and lascivious faces of the black rock and rollers were substituted by the innocent smiles of the Beatles; the unleashed rhythms of the first were substituted by the catchy tunes of the latter. Rock and roll could finally be included in the pop charts. The Beatles represented the quintessential reaction to a musical revolution in the making, and for a few years they managed to run its enthusiasm into the ground.

Furthermore, the Beatles represented the reaction against a social and political revolution. They arrived at the time of the student protests, of Bob Dylan, of the Hippies, and they replaced the image of angry kids with their fists in the air, with their cordial faces and their amiable declarations. They came to replace the accusatory words of militant musicians with overindulgent nursery rhymes. In this fashion as well the Beatles served as middle-class tranquilizers, as if to prove the new generation was not made up exclusively of rebels, misfits and sexual maniacs.

For most of their career the Beatles were four mediocre musicians who sang melodic three-minute tunes at a time when rock music was trying to push itself beyond that format (a format originally confined by the technical limitations of 78 rpm record). They were the quintessence of "mainstream", assimilating the innovations proposed by rock music, within the format of the melodic song.

The Beatles belonged, like the Beach Boys (whom they emulated for most of their career), to the era of the vocal band. In such a band the technique of the instrument was not as important as the chorus. Undoubtedly skilled at composing choruses, they availed themselves of producer George Martin (head of the Parlophone since 1956), to embellish those choruses with arrangements more and more eccentric.

Thanks to a careful publicity campaign they became the most celebrated entertainers of the era, and are still the darlings of magazines and tabloids, much like Princess Grace of Monaco and Lady Di.

The convergence between Western polyphony (melody, several parts of vocal harmony and instrumental arrangements) and African percussion - the leitmotif of American music from its inception - was legitimized in Europe by the huge success of the Merseybeat, in particular by its best sellers, Gerry and the Pacemakers and the Beatles, both produced by George Martin and managed by Brian Epstein. To the bands of the Merseybeat goes the credit of having validated rock music for a vast audience, a virtually endless audience. They were able to interpret the spirit and the technique of rock and roll, while separating it from its social circumstances, thus defusing potential explosions. In such fashion, they rendered it accessible not only to the young rebels, but to all. Mediocre musicians and even more mediocre intellectuals, bands like the Beatles had the intuition of the circus performer who knows how to amuse the peasants after a hard day's work, an intuition applied to the era of mass distribution of consumer goods.

Every one of their songs and every one of their albums followed much more striking songs and albums by others, but instead of simply imitating those songs, the Beatles adapted them to a bourgeois, conformist and orthodox dimension. The same process was applied to the philosophy of the time, from the protest on college campuses to Dylan's pacifism, from drugs to the Orient. Their vehicle was melody, a universal code of sorts, that declared their music innocuous. Naturally others performed the same operation, and many (from the Kinks to the Hollies, from the Beach Boys to the Mamas and Papas) produced melodies even more memorable, yet the Beatles arrived at the right moment and theirs would remain the trademark of the melodic song of the second half of the twentieth century.

Their ascent was branded as "Beatlemania", a phenomenon of mass hysteria launched in 1963 that marked the height of the "teen idol" mode, a extension of the myths of Frank Sinatra and Elvis Presley. From that moment on, no matter what they put together, the Beatles remained the center of the media's attention.

Musically, for what it's worth, the Beatles were the product of an era that had been prepared by vocal groups such as the Everly Brothers and by rockers such as Buddy Holly; an era that also expressed itself through the girl-groups, the Tamla bands and surf music. What the Beatles have in common with them, aside from almost identical melodies, is a general concept of song: an exuberant, optimistic and cadenced melody.

The Beatles were the quintessence of instrumental mediocrity. George Harrison was a pathetic guitarist, compared with the London guitarists of those days (Townshend of the Who, Richards of the Rolling Stones, Davies of the Kinks, Clapton and Beck and Page of the Yardbirds, and many others who were less famous but no less original). The Beatles had completely missed the revolution of rock music (founded on a prominent use of the guitar) and were still trapped in the stereotypes of the easy-listening orchestras. Paul McCartney was a singer from the 1950s, who could not have possibly sounded more conventional. As a bassist, he was not worth the last of the rhythm and blues bassists (even though within the world of Merseybeat his style was indeed revolutionary). Ringo Starr played drums the way any kid of that time played it in his garage (even though he may ultimately be the only one of the four who had a bit of technical competence). Overall, the technique of the "fab four" was the same of many other easy-listening groups: sub-standard.

Theirs were records of traditional songs crafted as they had been crafted for centuries, yet they served an immense audience, far greater than the audience of those who wanted to change the world, the hippies and protesters. Their fans ignored or abhorred the many rockers of the time who were experimenting with the suite format, who were composing long free-form tracks, who were using dissonance, who were radically changing the concept of the musical piece. The Beatles' fans thought, and some still think, that using trumpets in a rock song was a revolutionary event, that using background noises (although barely noticeable) was an even more revolutionary event, and that only great musical geniuses could vary so many styles in one album, precisely what many rock musicians were doing all over the world, employing much more sophisticated stylistic excursions.

While the Velvet Underground, Frank Zappa, the Doors, Pink Floyd and many others were composing long and daring suites worthy of avant garde music, thus elevating rock music to art, the Beatles continued to yield three minute songs built around a chorus. Beatlemania and its myth notwithstanding, Beatles fans went crazy for twenty seconds of trumpet, while the Velvet Underground were composing suites of chaos twenty minutes long. Actually, between noise and a trumpet, between twenty seconds and twenty minutes, there was an artistic difference of several degrees of magnitude. They were, musically, sociologically, politically, artistically, and ideologically, on different planets.

Beatlemania created a comical temporal distortion. Many Beatles fans were convinced that rock and roll was born around the early 60s, that psychedelic rock and the hippies were a 1967 phenomenon, that student protests began in 1969, that peace marches erupted at the end of the 60s, and so on. Beatles fans believed that the Beatles were first in everything, while in reality they were last in almost everything. The case of the Beatles is a textbook example of how myths can distort history.

The Beatles had the historical function to delay the impact of the innovations of the 60's . Between 1966 and 1969, while suites, jams, and long free form tracks (which the Beatles also tried but only toward the end of their career) became the fashion, while the world was full of guitarists, bassist, singers and drummers who played solos and experimented with counterpoint, the Beatles limited themselves to keeping the tempo and following the melody. Their historic function was also to prepare the more conservative audience for those innovations. Their strength was perhaps being the epitome of mediocrity: never a flash of genius, never a revolutionary thought, never a step away from what was standard, accepting innovations only after they had been accepted by the establishment. And maybe it was that chronic mediocrity that made their fortune: whereas other bands tried to surpass their audiences, to keep two steps ahead of the myopia of their fans, traveling the hard and rocky road, the Beatles took their fans by the hand and walked them along a straight path devoid of curves and slopes.