Photo Illustration by Elizabeth Brockway/The Daily Beast

A few years ago, I had the great luxury of spending an afternoon with Ringo Starr. The former Beatle was launching an exhibition of his digital artwork for his Lotus Foundation charity, and was meeting the press. I watched as he gamely answered question after question about his former band, even though it was hardly the reason he was there.

Eventually, we ended up in a small room, just the two of us, perusing a Basquiat on the wall. Starr had recently announced he would no longer sign autographs, but it was just the two of us, and so as we chatted amiably about mutual friends and the album he was working on, I started to slip my copies of Revolver and the “White Album” out of my bag.

Starr stopped me. “Don’t even ask,” he said firmly, but with a smile. “But let me see that.” He took my well-worn copy of the “White Album,” an album he recorded when he was just 28, looking at his younger self and his bandmates in the gatefold, lingering on the image of George Harrison.

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Author: By Jeff Slate