Love Me Do

The Beatles go from being a one hit wonder to the Band of the Century

In 2025, tech enthusiast and amateur historian Clara stumbled upon a quirky time-travel device at a garage sale, sold by a cryptic old man who claimed it could send small objects back exactly 63 years. A lifelong Beatles fan, Clara hatched a wild plan: send her old iPod Nano, loaded with every top ten, for every year, back to 1962, when the Beatles were just a scrappy Liverpool band with one minor hit, "Love Me Do." She figured it’d be a harmless gift to inspire her idols, maybe nudge their creativity. She set the device to October 5, 1962, placed the iPod and a solar-powered charger inside, and hit "send." With a faint hum and a flash, it vanished.


In 1962, John Lennon was rummaging through the Cavern Club’s backstage junk when he found a sleek, shiny gadget unlike anything he’d seen. It had a tiny screen, a wheel, and earbuds dangling like futuristic jewelry. Curious, he pressed a button, and "She Loves You" blared through the earbuds, nearly knocking him over. John called over Paul McCartney, George Harrison, and Ringo Starr, who’d just replaced Pete Best. The four huddled around, jaws dropped, as they scrolled through songs—hundreds of them, labeled "The Beatles," with titles like "Hey Jude," "Let It Be," and "Yesterday." The production was crisp, the harmonies unmistakably theirs, yet they’d never recorded these tracks.


Paul, ever the pragmatist, saw opportunity. “This is us, lads. Our future. Someone’s sent us a bloody goldmine.” John, more cynical, suspected a prank but couldn’t deny the songs’ brilliance. George, quietly awestruck, muttered, “It’s like we’re hearing our souls.” Ringo just grinned, tapping along. They agreed: they’d claim the songs as their own. Why not? They were theirs, somehow. The iPod’s futuristic design sparked another idea. “This thing’s called an ‘Apple,’” John said, reading the logo. “Let’s nick that too. Start a company. Make this gadget ourselves one day.”


Over the next year, the Beatles reverse-engineered their “future” catalog. They released "I Want to Hold Your Hand" in late 1962, followed by a string of hits from the iPod, each tweaked just enough to feel fresh. The world went mad for them. Beatlemania erupted faster and fiercer than in any original timeline. By 1964, they’d founded Apple Corps, not just a record label but a tech venture. John, obsessed with the iPod’s design, hired engineers to work toward building their own “Apple Music Player.” Paul handled the business, George scouted talent, and Ringo kept morale high with his quips.


The Beatles’ plagiarism wasn’t flawless. Fans noticed eerie similarities between songs, and critics whispered about their impossibly prolific output. A 1965 Melody Maker article speculated, “Have the Fab Four tapped into some cosmic jukebox?” But no one could prove anything. The iPod, now hidden in a Liverpool safe, was their sacred relic. They studied its tech, its interface, and by 1970, Apple Corps unveiled a primitive but functional music player, the “Apple Beatbox,” decades ahead of its time. The company pivoted to tech, becoming a global giant, rivaling IBM by 1980.


History warped. The Beatles, no longer just a band, were cultural and corporate titans. Their tech empire birthed the digital music age early, with Apple Music dominating by the 1990s. They never broke up, though tensions simmered—John’s ego clashed with Paul’s control, George felt sidelined, and Ringo just wanted to drum. Their original songs, like "Love Me Do," faded into obscurity, overshadowed by the iPod’s stolen hits. The world forgot the one-hit-wonder Beatles, knowing only the unstoppable quartet who’d seemingly predicted the future.


Back in 2025, Clara noticed her music library was… wrong. Her Beatles playlist was bloated with hits she didn’t recognize as “theirs,” and Apple Music’s logo looked oddly retro. Panicked, she dug into history books. The Beatles weren’t just a band—they’d founded Apple, invented the iPod decades early, and shaped the modern world. Her little experiment had rewritten reality. Worse, the time-travel device was gone, sold off by the old man who’d vanished. Clara stared at her now-useless iPhone, an Apple product with a Beatles emblem etched on the back, and whispered, “What have I done?”


The Beatles, in their 1962 gamble, had assumed they’d create the iPod themselves, closing the loop. But Clara’s gift had erased their organic genius, chaining them to a stolen legacy. Somewhere, in a parallel 2025, the real Beatles—nobodies with one hit—played pubs, unaware they’d once been gods.