WHEN I'M 84

THE WORLD STILL NEEDS RINGO STARR.

- BY MARK LEIBOVICH

Let's start with something that I'm not proud of but feels important to disclose up front. Last spring, I was interviewing Ringo Starr at the Sunset Marquis hotel, in West Hollywood, when I committed an embarrassing breach of journalistic ethics: As we were wrapping up, I asked Starr if he would pose for a photo with me.

"Or is that grossly unprofessional?" I asked, trying to come off as sheepish and apologetic.

Starr smirked.

"No, no, everybody's unprofessional," he said. "Don't feel special." He moved next to me and flashed a compulsory peace sign as his publicist snapped our photo. "Everybody does it," she said, and then handed me a white "peace and love" bracelet as a parting gift.

Starr flashed another peace sign-a double this time.

Okay, end of disclosure. From here on, this will be a sober and detached treatment of a seminal figure in the history of popular music. (Also: The photo can be viewed on my Instagram.)

RINGO STARR IS 84 years old and has lived quite an extraordinary life. I realize I am late to this story.

He is among the most scrutinized, fetishized, analyzed, and catechized people in history. I admit to feeling out of my depth, if this was not already clear. Usually, I write about politics. I am not accustomed to interacting with Beatles. As opposed to, say, congressmen.

That first day I met him, Starr had a new record to promote-a solo record, it still feels necessary to say. I had been granted a brief slot on his schedule around the release of Crooked Boy, a fourtrack collection that features the Strokes' guitarist Nick Valensi.

Starr had a packed interview dance card, with a procession of podcasters, YouTubers, and other species that didn't exist when he and his Liverpool mates first started doing this, back when America's chief influencer was Ed Sullivan.

Starr greeted me with a light fist bump, in keeping with his hypervigilance about avoiding germs.