By my rough count, I’ve just bought my 18th copy of the Beatles’ Abbey Road album. That includes somewhere between 10-12 vinyl copies before the CD version was released in 1987, plus 4-5 CDs before the advent of the iPod, and culminating today with what I have to believe will be my once and future absolute final copy.

Having gone through more rebirths than a bodhisattva and more re-releases than Benson the Carp, there’s no arguing that the Beatles’ music is beyond timeless. Word is this latest digital re-mastering of their last studio album has been purified to the point where you can actually hear the sound of one hand clapping as the group achieves sonic nirvana.

Or something like that. I haven’t been able to work up to taking off the shrink-wrap yet. In part, that’s because I’ve been performing to the final medley on Abbey Road for as long as I’ve been performing. I have probably spent 40 days and 40 nights of my usable lifespan with those five minutes as my personal soundtrack (I just did the math, and that’s 11,580 performances and rehearsals, or roughly 400 listens a year for 30 years – alarmingly close).  Also, by the time you hit your 50’s the thrill of the new isn’t so new, which is especially true when it’s mostly forty years old.

Back then, when you bought a record it would be on the turntable the minute you got home, with liner notes in hand; the same way that your stereo was the first box you unpacked and set-up after moving in. Today it’s easily thirty years since I read my last liner note, and almost that long since anyone’s written one. And even though I’ve got one seriously kickass sound system that can feed multiple audio sources to distinct speaker zones at the touch of a universal remote, it’s still boxed up in the storage attic of the house we moved to in July. Amid the multi-tasking gadgetry and nonstop complexity of every waking modern moment, silence is now the music most thrilling to my ears.

Kick ass stereo or not, I’m still looking forward to giving Abbey Road a fresh listen, as soon as I can find the time. I’m hoping to squeeze it in tonight, maybe right after I finish my workout, answer my email, feed and walk Titan (our minpin), and skype Daisy (my wife) in Brazil. And post this damn blog.

But it’s the fresh part that’s most problematic. I still remember the excitement of hearing Hey Jude for the first time, when it debuted on the Smothers Brothers’ show, and how I got chills when the lights came up as the final chorus kicked in, revealing a studio filled with people who surged around the band to sing along. Finding my way back to those fresh eyes and ears (and heart) gets trickier every day, but I know the mind must stay open to stay alive. After all, a man never crosses the same river twice, especially if he forgets how to swim.