Which want

Which is more correct, "Which one do you want? Asked 9 years, 1 month ago. Active 9 years, 1 month ago. Viewed 48k times. Improve this question. Margaret Margaret 11 1 1 gold badge 1 1 silver badge 1 1 bronze badge. Please support our proposed sister site for English language learners.

Thank you. Add a comment. Active Oldest Votes. Extracurricular activities. The martial arts offer a safe platform for releasing energy while gaining valuable self-defense skills. However, once you have attained mastery at the brown-belt level, you are ready to guard your phone or iPad from your children.

Most, though, will continue their hungry advance toward the devices. If they continue their assault, keep a cool head, and let your training guide you. Find a quiet moment with your son, preferably when he is not live-streaming a video game for an audience of perfect strangers. Neither option looked particularly dashing with a yarmulke.

My father, an exceedingly quiet man, found his deepest connection with me through music. And, because he did me the honor of listening to the Beatles, I listened when he played records that he said figured into what seemed so new: Gilbert and Sullivan, English music-hall tunes, Rodgers and Hammerstein, Rodgers and Hart, the jazz of the thirties and forties, Chuck Berry, Buddy Holly, Little Richard.

In the same spirit of exchange, we watched Beatlemania take shape on television—news footage from Shea Stadium and airport press conferences. My father did not fail to mention that all the hysteria reminded him of a skinny Italian American singer from Hoboken. But this, he admitted, was much bigger. Some years later, I began to see how music, and the stories of musicians, could play an uncanny role in our lives.

One afternoon, I came home from my high school to report that a friend of mine was the son of a piano player. Wilson, my father explained, was the most elegant pianist in jazz. In the mid-thirties, he joined Benny Goodman, Lionel Hampton, and Gene Krupa, forming a swing-era quartet that was as remarkable for its integration as it was for its syncopated wildness.

In , my classmate invited my father and me and some friends to the opening of the Newport Jazz Festival at Carnegie Hall, where the old Goodman quartet was reuniting. We were allowed backstage beforehand, shyly watching as Teddy Wilson massaged his hands and fingers and slowly rotated his wrists. One afternoon this summer, I went to meet McCartney at his midtown office, a town house near the Ziegfeld Theatre. It was a hot Saturday, and the Delta variant had broomed away most of the tourists and weekend wanderers.

Although I was early, he was there at the reception desk to greet me. In the elevator to the second floor, we went through the ritual exchange of vaccine assurances and peeled off our masks. McCartney has slight pillows of jowl, but he remains trim. No one in the public eye lacks vanity, but McCartney is knowing about it. We reached a large sitting room, and, as he plopped down on the couch, a hearing aid sprang out of his right ear. He rolled his eyes and, with a complicit smile, used his index finger to push the wormy apparatus back in place.

In our conversations, McCartney struck me as charming and shrewd, an entertainer eager to please but intent on setting the story straight. He has navigated a life with little precedent, one in which a few home-town friends played a pivotal role in the rise of rock and roll, the invention of the teen-ager, youth culture, and the sixties.

The rewards for this have been unimaginable, and yet, even at this late date, McCartney wants the history of the Beatles and his place in it to come out right. Robert Weil, the editor-in-chief of Liveright, pursued McCartney for years to do the book and, in the end, helped put him together with the poet Paul Muldoon, who conducted dozens of interviews. His mother, a midwife named Mary, had succumbed to breast cancer earlier that year. But one thing I remember vividly was on the bedclothes there was some blood.

His father, Jim, was a cotton salesman and an amateur jazz musician. Although Paul grew up in Liverpool on a working-class housing estate, he went to a good secondary school where he caught the bug for literature from his teacher Alan Durband, who had studied with F.

Leavis at Cambridge. His own room was filling with music. In those days, though, a kid playing his first chords on a guitar and furtively writing his first lyrics was unusual. To turn this lonely preoccupation into something bigger, he had to go out looking for a friend and a band. On July 6, , McCartney, now fifteen, rode his bike to a nearby fair to hear a local skiffle group called the Quarry Men. They had more in common than their talent and ambition.

His father left the family when John was a child. Lennon, more than a year older than McCartney, masked his wound with cocksure wit. And now he made a cunning, history-altering calculation. Not long afterward, McCartney brought in a school friend, George Harrison, a younger guitar player.

All were working-class Liverpudlians though John was posher, Ringo poorer. Together, they figured out guitar chords as if they were ancient runes. When Paul and George heard that someone across town knew the fingering for the B7 chord—the essential chord to go with E and A for every blues-based song in the rock repertoire—they got on a bus to meet the guy and learn it.

First in Liverpool, and then for seven, eight hours a night in Hamburg, the Beatles cut their teeth, learning scores of covers and building a reputation. At first, the songs were nothing special. What was clear from the start was that writing would be a matter of Lennon and McCartney. As the Beatles gained a following, the sophistication of their songwriting deepened. Within two months, they had the Top Five songs on the Billboard charts and Beatlemania was under way.

The Beatles revelled not only in their music but in the fun, the just-us camaraderie, the inside jokes. Fun had been the idea. And to pull birds. And I pulled quite a few birds, and got out of having a job. What was striking about the Beatles was the inventiveness of their melodies and chord progressions. Every month, it seemed, they became more distinct from everyone else. The development from album to album—from three-chord teen-age love songs to intricate ballads to the tape loops and synthesizers of their psychedelic moment—both caught the Zeitgeist and created it.

And they had a sense of style to match: the suits, the boots, the haircuts all became era-defining. Even classical mavens were impressed. The Beatles worked at a furious pace. Their producer, George Martin, brought deep experience to the process, along with an unerring ability to help the band translate their ideas into reality.

By , the Beatles had tired of the road. We were the meat. The divorce rate among musical collaborators is high, and the breaking point is hard to predict. Gilbert and Arthur Sullivan famous. But perhaps the problems started when in August, , their manager, Brian Epstein, died of a drug overdose. Although Epstein was only thirty-two, the band saw him as a unifying, even paternal, figure.

Once, they had worked in constant proximity—on tour buses or in shared hotel rooms. And Harrison, who was developing as a songwriter, was growing frustrated with his modest quota of songs per album.

After hanging out in upstate New York with The Band, he believed he had glimpsed a more communal and equitable version of musical life. Usually, they came to the studio with fourteen or so songs more or less ready to be recorded. Not this time. Then, there was the presence of Yoko Ono, who freely offered her thoughts.