With the announcement of Anthology 4, Beatles fans have reason to celebrate. More unheard tracks and unseen stories are on the way this fall. But amid the excitement, there’s a familiar pang of disappointment: once again, Carnival of Light will remain unheard.
Recorded in 1967 for a London art festival, the nearly 14-minute track is The Beatles at their most avant-garde—distorted organs, reversed guitars, shouts, and chaos. Paul McCartney has pushed for its release for decades, only to be vetoed by his bandmates. Its very absence has made it one of rock’s great legends.
I remember this feeling clearly. In 2005, Des Moines Register writer Kyle Munson was preparing to interview McCartney before his show in Des Moines. He asked me what I’d want him to ask. The “Paul is Dead” conspiracy crossed my mind, with its odd Des Moines connections. But what I really wanted to know was simple: would we ever hear Carnival of Light?
Over the years the Beatles have given us almost everything. They’ve bared their genius and their flaws, their joy and heartbreak. And yet they’ve kept one secret dangling just out of reach.
Maybe that’s their final gift. In an age when nearly every scrap of tape is dug up, remastered, and catalogued, they’ve preserved one mystery for us to dream about. Carnival of Light reminds us that wonder isn’t always in possession but in longing, in the silence between what we know and what we imagine.
We may never hear it. Or maybe one day we will. But until then, its absence binds us together as fans in a shared hope, a shared curiosity. And perhaps that small, unanswerable question is exactly what keeps the Beatles alive—not just as history, but as something still unfolding, still unfinished, still eternal.
By Patrick Tape Fleming