Sorry To Say So But The Beatles Built Cathedrals, While The Stones Built… Bonfires

When I was in college (1965-69), The Beatles vs. Rolling Stones divide was one of the classic cultural dichotomies of the day. For many of us, it went beyond musical preference and shaded into worldview, personality, even politics. The Beatles were seen as more polished, melodic, experimental, and broadly appealing— creative innovators who could wrap relatively radical ideas in a friendly package. Their fans were often associated with idealism, optimism and a touch of mainstream acceptability. The Stones, by contrast, cultivated a rawer, grittier, blues-driven image— darker, rebellious and more dangerous and vaguely threatening. Their partisans leaned toward cynicism, edginess, and a more confrontational relationship with authority.

Writers at the time often said “The Beatles wanted to hold your hand; the Stones wanted to sleep with your sister”— a glib way of pointing to the clean-cut vs. bad-boy archetypes. But the distinction mattered deeply to young people because it felt like a choice of identity: do you align with the utopian, expansive energy of the Beatles, or the defiant, swaggering energy of the Stones?

I was more a Stones fan. I would take an acid trip the day each of their albums came out (Out Of Our Heads, December's Children, Aftermath, Between The Buttons, Their Satantic Majesties Request, Beggar's Banquet). Recently I listened to some of the old tunes I liked back then and found them... surprisingly thin and unsatisfying. 

Mid-60s Stones albums were often recorded quickly, with relatively primitive studio setups compared to today’s standards. Mono mixes, thin bass, and raw treble-heavy guitars were the norm. What once felt sharp and urgent can now easily feel brittle and even underpowered. Some of the early hits (“Get Off of My Cloud,” “19th Nervous Breakdown”) were structured more as riffs and attitude than layered musical journeys. When you’re young, that immediacy feels intoxicating; with hindsight, the lack of depth can be more obvious.

However, starting with Beggars Banquet, Jimmy Miller’s production, Keith’s open tunings, and the band’s tighter groove gave them a fuller, more timeless sound. Earlier albums can pale when set against the muscularity of “Sympathy for the Devil” or “Gimme Shelter.” In 1966, a song like “Paint It, Black” felt like a portal to another world. It sounded dangerous, exotic, revolutionary. In 2025, after decades of louder, heavier, and stranger music, the shock value is gone.

We weren’t just listening to music— we were listening as part of a youth movement, often amplified by acid, rebellion and the thrill of defying parental norms leftover from the ’50s. The Stones were the anti-Beatles in cultural shorthand. That charge doesn’t exist when revisiting the tracks decades later in a quieter living room. Some songs have been played to death by radio, movies, and commercials. What once was underground and thrilling now feels like canon fatigue and cultural wallpaper.

For me, taking acid with each release meant the music wasn’t just sound— it was an immersive world I built part of an identity on. Acid collapses the boundary between you and the song. Listening now, without that heightened state, the music may feel flatter by contrast. Sometimes, we’re really listening to the memory of how a song once made us feel. When the current experience doesn’t match that memory, disappointment creeps in. It’s not the song that’s thin— it’s that the old intensity can’t be recreated. As we age, we often demand more complexity and depth from art. What once sufficed as swagger and rebellion may now feel shallow compared to the richness we’ve since encountered— in jazz, classical, or even in the Stones’ later, deeper catalog.

In a way, finding those songs thin today is proof of growth. Back then, they were perfect for a college student chasing intensity and rebellion. Now, my ears and soul are more  attuned to something else. It doesn’t erase the magic I felt then— it just means the Stones gave me exactly what I needed at the time, but many of us have since outgrown that layer of their music— even with this kind of unique backdrop!

Part of why Beatles songs tend to hold up better than so many of the Stones’ early recordings comes down to craft and intent. Even at their most playful, the Beatles treated composition as architecture: melody, harmony and counterpoint carefully interlocked in ways that could survive stripped-down arrangements or lush studio treatments. That’s why you can hear “Eleanor Rigby” or “In My Life” on a lone acoustic guitar and still feel the song’s emotional weight. Their recordings were also better engineered— George Martin’s production aimed for clarity and balance rather than raw immediacy— so the songs don’t collapse under the scrutiny of modern ears accustomed to richer soundscapes.

Equally important is how the Beatles wrote with universality in mind. Their songs rarely depended only on attitude or cultural moment; instead, they aimed at themes— love, longing, wonder, mortality— that remain accessible decades later. The Stones were masters of swagger and groove, but those qualities can fade once the shock of rebellion becomes historical wallpaper. The Beatles’ catalog, in contrast, was built with the bones of Tin Pan Alley and classical traditions, fused with rock’s electricity. That structural integrity, combined with an instinct for timeless melody, helps their songs transcend both era and fashion— still sounding alive in ways that many of their contemporaries, even the Stones, sometimes don’t.