I recall the first time I heard Yesterday. It wasn’t on the radio or a cassette tape but sung by my uncle—a man who loved singing old classics in a voice I would generously call “unique.” I was just a child, sitting in our living room, chewing on some snacks, when he suddenly broke into song, "Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away..."
Was it out of tune? Most certainly. Yet something in that song made me turn my head.
Back then, I didn’t understand why someone could feel such melancholy over an imagined better yesterday. Didn’t life only move in one direction? But as I grew older, I discovered that nostalgia can be a viciously sweet lure—often stronger than reality itself. Something about this song invites us all to contemplate the past—to think about moments we cannot relive, choices we cannot undo, and dreams that slowly slip away.
Yesterday stands out for its simplicity, yet this very quality makes it feel intimate—just an acoustic guitar and soft vocals, no frills. The song is like a warm cup of tea on a cloudy afternoon—comforting, yet tinged with melancholy.
Once, I was sitting in a café, watching the rain trickle down the window, brooding over the complications of adult life. Then, all of a sudden, the song started playing. It felt as if the universe was saying, Remember when things were simpler? And all I could do was sigh and reply, Yes. Yes, they were.
Many theories exist about the song’s meaning. Some see it as an anthem of heartbreak, while others interpret it as a meditation on grief for something irretrievable. To me, Yesterday isn’t just about losing someone—it’s about losing something perennial: innocence, youth, or the carefree days unburdened by heaviness.
What makes this song special is that it never goes out of date. It transcends generations, becoming a soundtrack for personal grief. Even those untouched by love’s sorrows can feel its ache through the gentle strumming of the guitar and its humble lyrics.
A few years ago, I decided to try playing Yesterday on my guitar, believing that the magic lay in how I rendered it. That ended with cramped fingers, tangled chords, and a performance closer to a kindergarten recital than a melancholic masterpiece. Perhaps that’s why only McCartney can play it so well.
But in the end, Yesterday is not about who performs it. Rather, it’s about how it finds us—in cars during long drives, in dimly lit cafés, or from someone humming it passionately, even if completely out of tune. Every time it plays, wherever I may be, it feels like the past comes time-warping in for a present embrace.
So, is Yesterday truly a sad song? Who can say for certain? Perhaps it serves as a reminder that yesterday’s memories endure—not to confine us, but to teach us that both beauty and pain are integral to the journey.
Thanks for reading, hope you enjoy the music.