On June 1, 1967—49-years-ago—the Beatles released Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Heart Band, their
masterpiece and arguably the most important rock album ever.
Released simultaneously in Europe and America, it was an
instant sensation. A pioneering concept album—with a beginning and end instead
of random cuts—Sgt. Pepper flew off
the shelves.
Critics loved it. Neil McCormick wrote in the London Telegraph,
“it is impossible to overstate its impact.” Psychologist and LSD advocate
Timothy Leary said Sgt. Pepper’s
embrace of psychedelic culture, “gave voice to the feeling that the old ways
were over.”
Rolling Stone called the week following Pepper’s release,
“the closest Western Civilization has come to unity since the Congress of
Vienna in 1815 ….In every city in Europe and America radio stations played it
and everyone listened.”
Well, not quite.
They weren’t listening in eastern Europe, as I was soon to find out.
Communist censorship kept Sgt. Pepper
away from the ears of people behind the iron curtain. Gradually, of course,
bootleg copies filtered in.
I was a graduate student in Michigan when Sgt. Pepper came out, and about to leave
for a two month-long academic seminar in Yugoslavia. Luckily I had ten days to absorb this amazing opus before
departing on June 15th
Curiously in that 1967 summer of love, Sgt. Pepper was not
available in Yugoslavia, the non-aligned communist nation that straddled the
Balkans. At that time Yugoslavia was riding high, presenting itself as a bridge
between east and west, a multi-ethnic success story open to western influence,
whose citizens could travel where they wanted.
In those years when travelers still dressed up for
transatlantic flights, Pan American lined up our group of 20 for a photo at its
futuristic terminal at JFK.
In the Slavia Hotel on Marshall Tito Boulevard, I
momentarily froze when I realized I was sharing the elevator with two Russian
generals. Visiting the Chinese embassy we were handed English translations of
Chairman Mao’s little red book. Traveling by bus in impoverished Kosovo we
experienced public toilets that were holes in the floor with raised treads
indicating how things were to be done.
On days without lectures, I prowled downtown shops in search
of Sgt. Pepper. The album wasn’t to
be found and clerks hadn’t heard of it. I did get tickets for a concert by
Graham Nash and The Hollies. That night the English rock group came on stage in
floor length moo moos, a large banner above them declaring in English, “Hollies
Love Peace.”
I had just about given up finding Sgt. Pepper until somewhere on the bus in Bosnia-Hercegovina a
radio station played Help, that tame,
earlier Beatles recording.
Aware that we would be spending the next week in Slovenia,
the Yugoslav republic closest to Italy, I wondered if there might be some way I
could reach Trieste and bring the album back to Ljubljana.
In red, the route between
Ljubljana and Trieste, Italy
With the assistance of friends I devised a plan. I was told
the train was too slow, making it impossible to get the 60 miles to Trieste and
back in a day. There were no
buses. But someone said driving was relatively easy and that the border
controls were not onerous. With that information, I resolved to hitch hike.
Early on the morning of July 20th, missing a lecture on the
history of Slovene painting, I boarded a tram for the city’s outskirts. Reaching
the main road south to Italy, I put out my thumb and held aloft the sign I had
made the night before from a file folder.
The first record store I came to had a stack of Sgt. Pepper
near the cashier. Paying for the album and flush with success, within minutes I
boarded a city bus and was headed back to the border and Slovenia.
I arrived at the University of Ljubljana philosophical
faculty before dark. Dinner was
over but some of our group and a few Slovene students were still in the
canteen, which had a record player. I put on the precious Beatles LP. The music
played but the response in the room was muted. I however was ecstatic. When our group moved on to the University of Zagreb, Sgt. Pepper became my gift to the
students in Ljubljana.
Ironically, less than a week later a telegram arrived
informing me that my student deferment from the draft had been rescinded. I was
ordered to report for a physical and induction into the army. On the advice of
professors, I departed at once to plead for reconsideration.
I arrived in New York on July 27th. That same
evening I flew to Detroit, where a week of racial rioting had left parts of the
city in flames. As the American Airlines 727 came in to land fires lit up the
night sky. Metro airport was a beehive of activity as President Johnson had
deployed airborne troops to restore order. Forty-three people died in the
unrest and 1,100 others were injured.
Back home in Kalamazoo and armed with a letter granting me
an assistant ship in the economics department at Western Michigan University, I
won my appeal from the draft board.
Awaiting the start of the academic year, I savored again the
mind-blowing effect of Sgt. Pepper on
stereophonic speakers. Yapping dogs and synthetic sounds ricocheted through my
head as the show concluded with the orchestral climax of John Lennon’s “Day in
the Life.”
Thus ended my summer of love.
But what about Yugoslavia, a country that in less than
30-years collapsed amid barbarous civil war? In 1967 scholars utterly failed to
see that future. In three-dozen lectures at universities in Serbia, Bosnia,
Slovenia and Croatia, there was no mention of ethnic conflict or eventual
breakup. The Slavic specialists among us likewise failed to see dangers ahead.
Yes, there was talk of regional disparities and rival nationalisms but they
were regarded as benign, not malignant.
With the advantage of hindsight, Yugoslavia was held
together by force and the charismatic power of Tito, the partisan hero who
fought the Germans in World War II.
He died in 1980 without a successor. In the years that followed the
center weakened and long suppressed ethnic rivalries gained strength. In 1991 when
totalitarian communism collapsed in Russia, Yugoslavia—like the Soviet
Union—fell apart.