I do remember actually learning chords to Beatles songs. I

Mick Taylor once said with quiet reverence: “I do remember actually learning chords to Beatles songs. I thought they were great songwriters.” These words are not merely about music, nor only about youthful practice with an instrument. They are a testimony to the way inspiration passes from one generation to the next, as a flame kindled from the torch of another. In Taylor’s remembrance, we hear the ancient truth: that mastery begins in imitation, that greatness is born when one first bows before the wisdom of others.

To learn chords is to enter into the foundation of harmony itself. Each chord is a gathering of notes, distinct and yet united, different voices combined into one song. In this lies a parable for human life: a single tone may be pure, but it is in combination, in relationship, that true depth arises. Taylor’s memory of sitting with his instrument, tracing the chords of others, is the same ritual practiced by apprentices through time—be it a craftsman carving wood in the style of his master, or a painter sketching the works of those who came before.

The Beatles, whom he names, were not mere entertainers, but alchemists of sound. They took simple patterns, wove them with daring, and created music that spoke to the longing of their age. In calling them “great songwriters,” Taylor acknowledges not only their fame, but their craft—the discipline hidden beneath melody, the architecture behind beauty. Just as Homer’s verses endured not only for their tales but for their artistry, so too did the Beatles build songs that shaped the spirit of a century.

Consider the story of Michelangelo, who in his youth studied the works of Donatello and Ghiberti. He did not at first create marvels of his own; he copied, he absorbed, he practiced upon the bones of the masters. Only after bowing to their genius could he rise to create the David, the Sistine Chapel, the Pietà. So too, Mick Taylor’s journey began with the chords of others. By embracing the greatness of the Beatles, he prepared the ground upon which his own artistry would later flourish.

The humility in Taylor’s words is vital. He does not boast of originality in that moment, but confesses to learning. And herein lies the wisdom: that greatness does not spring forth fully formed. It grows in stages, from the soil of admiration, through the roots of imitation, until at last the branches bear fruit of their own. To acknowledge one’s teachers, even indirect ones, is to honor the chain of wisdom that binds all creators, all thinkers, all seekers.

What then is the lesson for us? It is this: if you would be great, do not fear to begin as a student of greatness. Study the works of those who inspire you—whether in music, art, craft, or life itself. Learn their chords, the structures of their thought, the patterns of their action. For in doing so, you will not remain their shadow, but will discover your own light. Every creator is first a listener, every master first an apprentice.

And so, the practical path is clear: seek out the masters of your craft. Read their works, echo their methods, study their movements. Do not mistake imitation for weakness—it is the sacred threshold through which all must pass. As Taylor learned the chords of the Beatles, so too must you learn the patterns of those who walked before. In time, your own music will rise, distinct yet enriched, adding its voice to the eternal chorus of humanity.

Thus the teaching endures: honor the songwriters of your past, learn their chords, and through them, awaken your own song. For just as Mick Taylor’s memory shines as a testimony of humble beginnings, so too can your beginnings, if embraced with reverence and discipline, lead to the creation of works that will inspire those yet to come.