![]() ![]() And while I would go on to read, if not every other, then damn close to it, that sense of an illicit reading encounter-with me wondering if I had done something wrong in so willingly being funneled into this mad, psychotropic world-captured a kind of Beatlesesque spirit, quite beyond the let’s-all-drink-liquid-acid trappings. ![]() It was the first book on the band I ever read. The closest I ever came to a contact high from reading occurred the summer I was 14, curled up on my bed and pretending it was some submersible straight out of Yellow Submarine, staring gobsmacked at the pages of Peter Brown and Steven Gaines’ The Love You Make, a drugs- and sex-sotted ripsnorter of a Beatles bio. ![]()
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