The Japanese horoscope is blood type. According to superstition and conventional wisdom (and some popular but questionable studies), the Japanese see important psychological information manifesting itself in a person’s blood type. For a culture that craves anonymity and conformation (it is, as they say, the nail that sticks out that gets the hammer), a person’s blood type offers some individuality, some us to be against some other them. Although many, if not most, disregard blood typology as an entertaining but meaningless fad, “what’s your type” is roughly the equivalent of “what’s your sign” on this side of the Pacific. And, like astrological signs, blood types are supposed to reveal your personality and preferences and an entire cottage industry has grown up around offering advice (not to mention products – condoms and colas have both been marketed to particular types) specifically geared to one of the four types. As they are viewed in Japan, type A tends to be soft-spoken, cautious and conformist (and, not surprisingly, it also is the most common blood type in Japan (as well as my own)), type O is aggressive and enthusiastic and goal-oriented (excellent manager material), type B is passionate and emotional and creative (and flaky), and AB is highly original and good at planning (and, at under 5%, the least common).

Although not much for either astrology or typology in revealing a person’s true identity, I am a firm believer in Beatlology. One theory for the enduring popularity of the Beatles is that, between the four of them, they had something for everybody. Everybody wants to be (or date) at least one of them – everybody seems to prefer one over the others, and which one you choose reveals your personality and aspirations – your type. Paul was the cute one (your first crush) and John was the mischievous intellectual (your college boyfriend) and George was the spiritual one (the one you hoped to marry) and Ringo was the lucky joker (remember that business trip to Dayton?).

It’s funny that of everybody in the band, Ringo was seen as the lucky one – the Beatle you could’ve been if you were in the right place at the right time – as he was probably the best musician of the lot. As a type, Ringo was the wry outsider, cynically deadpanning on the absurdity of the world while still being very much a part of that world. A lover of chaos, Ringo was the crazy old uncle that taught you things your parents wouldn’t dare, and he appealed to the anarchist in us. The ugliest of the lads (sorry, Rings), he won girls over with his down-to-earth sense of humor. While the other three seemed touched by a divine hand, Ringo was the bumbling everyman, a lucky bloke who got swept along for the ride, always cracking wise. Ringos are smart, cynical, ultimately lonely social outsiders who manage to skate by on humor and guile and grace. Woody Allen and Bart Simpson are Ringos. The quintessential Ringo Starr song (and one of, I believe, only two that he wrote with the group): Octopus’ Garden.

George was the sensitive holy one, the serene mystic. He was the one who was most taken with the spiritual side of the 60s “revolution”. Within the band, he played the part of superb technician, playing the trickier solos and being called upon to learn the sitar in a few minutes for Norwegian Wood and so on. He was, in many ways, the quintessential lead guitarist – one who didn’t demand the same kind of attention as the singers, but still held the band together, the one that those in the know really watched. His output was relatively small (although, compared to John and Paul, almost every songwriter and composer in history was a slacker), but his songs were finely wrought. Like their maker, his songs took a while to flower, but by the end, they cemented his reputation as the Beatle who was always looking up. Georges are sincere and earnest and politically correct, sometimes irritatingly so. Ghandi and Alan Alda are Georges and so is Richard Gere. George Harrison’s quintessential song: Something.

Paul was the cute one, the earnest one, the lovable one who liked long walks and warm fires and snuggling and wasn’t afraid to cry at the beautiful sentimentality of this bittersweet world. Criticized by some for being too schmaltzy and populist, Paul nevertheless wrote many of the band’s most memorable and successful tunes. Paul was the one that cracked open the possibilities in the band when he wrote his quintessential song – the most covered song in history – and forever changed the pop music landscape and the perception of what the Beatles were and what they could be, both in the world at large and within the Beatles themselves. Pauls are popular and talented and cute and part of the pep squad – in school and in the world at large – and sometimes you’d just want to kill them if they weren’t so darn likeable. Tom Cruise and Mozart are Pauls. Paul McCartney’s quintessential Beatles song: Yesterday.

John has long been seen as the most serious Beatle, and he seems to attract the most serious fans (after all, only an extremely devoted fan would ever consider killing their idol). Although Paul actually broke much of the new ground in the band – both sonically and philosophically – John is usually given credit as the innovator, the mad genius. And since John and Paul signed both names to their individual songs, John gets the credit for writing the edgiest stuff even if it was all Paul’s work (most people, myself and Charles Manson included, figured that Helter Skelter was all John and no Paul, and not the other way around). Johns are often too smart for their own good and are frequently troubled and can be hard to get along with. Fed up with the material excesses of the world, Johns are outspoken and principled, although sometimes their principles are hard to fathom. Robert DeNiro and Jesus are Johns. John Lennon’s quintessential song: All You Need is Love.

It’s almost impossible writing about the Beatles – what can one say that hasn’t been said a thousand times already? Every twitch they made together has been documented and analyzed and mythologized to the point that it’s difficult to believe they were actually human beings. One of the best things I read about them, which I largely agree with, is that they were one of the very few cases in history in which those who were the best at what they did were also the most popular. They irrevocably changed the history of not just popular music, but the world in general. There was never anybody like them before they burst onto the scene, and there will never be another group like them. That kind of mass worldwide hysteria is unlikely to ever happen again, it was largely a matter of impeccable timing. After the sexual revolution, teens (especially teenage girls) could find other ways to release their mounting sexual frustration than screaming at the top of their lungs at four smudgy little black and white musicians on the family’s Philco.

This track is, of course, taken from what many consider to be the greatest album of all time, the mythical Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Heart’s Club Band. Too young to participate in it myself (I was three), I have heard tales about how when it was released, radio stations played it in its entirety over and over again. It was the first album the lads put out after their controversial decision to stop touring, and it perfectly captured the tenor of the times, ushering in the age of psychedelia. Reportedly the first “concept” album, Sgt Pepper rewrote the rules of what an album could be, and raised the bar impossibly high, winning the informal battle of the bands that was happening between the Beatles and the Beach Boys, each side firing increasingly accomplished artillery across the ocean.

But for all that, it is a fairly spotty affair. That which is good (the first three tracks, She’s Leaving Home, the last track) is phenomenal, but there are plenty of mediocre songs (Being for the Benefit of Mr. Kite, Lovely Rita) and a couple of real dogs on it (Good Morning and the especially wretched Within You, Without You). Also, saying it’s a concept album is really stretching the concept of a concept. It starts off strong, introducing the doppelband, but, except for the brief reprise of the Sgt Pepper theme towards the end of side two, they drop the entire conceit by the third track. Still, it’s Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Heart’s Club Band, and it does have what is surely one of the highpoints of the Beatles recorded output, the haunting, mesmerizing, mystifying album closer, A Day in the Life.

In many ways, A Day in the Life perfectly encapsulates the Beatles. It is well known that John and Paul put both their names on all their songs, no matter who wrote them, and it is true that most of the time, you can tell that the song is all Paul or all John. But A Day in the Life is a true collaboration, famously stitched together from two completely separate and unrelated song fragments. The song really shouldn’t work. Lennon’s lyrics seem deep and portentous, but they’re ridiculous and nonsensical. He was a master of putting just enough innuendo into a bit of nonsense to make it seem significant, but his lyrics really are a rundown of what he saw in the paper that day – a day in the life. Paul’s lyrics in the middle section are banal to the extreme, but, again, just enough of a wink at the end (went upstairs and had a smoke, and somebody spoke and I went into a dream) to keep the followers decoding for years. Analogies to tripping or dying are easy to attach to the song. Like a lot of Beatles songs of that era, there’s just enough mystery to keep the game fun, and make them seem like they were deeper than they probably were. The elements of this track are so legendary that they form some of the primal touchstones of rock and roll. Ringo’s stumbling drums, augmented by a delicate egg shaker. The long orchestra climb that mark the middle and end of the song (Paul’s instructions to the orchestra: start at the lowest note your instrument makes and, over the course of the 16 measures, go up to the highest note your instrument makes). Lennon’s voice is absolutely chilling, and makes the meaningless lyrics seem even more significant. Especially powerful are the foreboding vibrato he uses on the line “I’d love to turn you on” and the soaring, wordless “ahh”s at the end of the middle section, anchored by the martial brass slamming it back into a reprise of the opening section. The final crescendo is so overpowering and the ending so final that it makes it almost impossible to follow it with anything. That’s why it had to be the last track on the album, the only thing that can stand up to it is stunned silence. As one reviewer aptly put it, A Day in the Life sounds like the end of the world (as we know it, and I’m not feeling so good myself).

I recently read an article about how the Beatles are the hot new underground band with kids these days, one 19-year-old girl was quoted saying that a lot of the music people listen to, they listen to because it’s cool to listen to, but in 10 years, they’ll all be forgotten. The Beatles, she countered, will always be cool because their music is so good. There’s something timeless and eternal about the Beatles, something positive and empowering that speaks to youth everywhere, and each generation that comes along takes them as their own. They are so familiar that they’re practically encoded in our DNA. There never was anybody like them and there never will be. They were touched by the divine, and produced an astonishingly rich and varied and consistently excellent body of work, one that will be meaningful to the world for as long as there are people.

They are the Beatles, and they are the greatest band that ever shall be.