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yes_2dayWARNINGS: This is slash fiction. It is also FICTION FICTION FICTION. I dot the landscape with things that really happened, but put my own spin on them. I make up the conversations and motivations of the characters. I hope you enjoy it anyway!
Chapter 6C
Although we had thoroughly enjoyed that extra several days in America, it had the less desirable effect of pushing all of our other obligations closer together. Paul and I had at least managed to work up six songs to the point where we could go into the recording studio as promised. But then we were told we still needed seven more. Many of the songs were to be for the movie we were going to film, which later was released as “A Hard Day’s Night,” and the rest were for filler on the album.
Our second American album was released in May 1964, after we’d spent about 2 weeks recording. Most of these songs were material from our club repertoire. Among the songs in the album were single hits like “She Loves You”, and also “From Me to You” and other 1963 songs that had already been released in England.
Our personal lives were placed on hold again, because no sooner had we finished putting together the new songs for the movie record than we had a quick early- March UK tour, followed by a few social events in London that we were required to attend, most featuring awards and accolades and blah blah blah. Then it was straight into rehearsals for our first movie, as well as recording sessions for the movie’s soundtrack. To say it was “hectic” would be understating it by a mile. On one fateful day, much to our unanimous shock and amazement, when Brian Epstein announced yet another engagement to be squeezed in to an already tight schedule, Paul shouted out: “Brian, we need a day off!” George, Ringo and I looked at each other in astonishment, and then I loudly expostulated “It’s a miracle!” to much laughter. Brian was so taken aback by the concept of Paul McCartney asking for a whole day off that he gave it to us! We were truly running on empty, and when we got back to wherever we were perching for the night – the Beatles’ apartment in Green Street, or a hotel in some nameless city, we would just flop on sofas and stare at the TV. If there were no TV, we would stare at the walls. I am sure this is not how our fans imagined our lives to be. Not a groupie in sight.
In March, before Hard Day’s Night and after the U.S. Tour, the Beatles got a whole week off. Brian made me go off with George (and of course Cynthia and George’s new girlfriend Pattie Boyd, who he had just met while being introduced to our co-stars in the movie, came along too), and he made Ringo and Paul go off (and they, scandalously, brought their girlfriends with them, Maureen and Jane.) This was his way of keeping Paul and me from “getting on each other’s nerves” and to allow us to “get a fresh start.” George and I went to Tahiti on a boat, and Ringo and Paul went to Greece. Pattie was seasick the whole time, and George and I got into at least one nit-picking argument per day. Cynthia spent most of her time mediating the George/John spats and I spent all my time, to the extent I was allowed to, sullenly dreaming of my one true love. Pattie, who didn’t know us very well, got an eyeful and an earful. Ordeal by fire.
Naturally, the word from the Paul/Ringo trip was that everyone got along marvelously well, including Maureen’s parents and brother who accompanied them. They laughed, they played, they ate well, they sang songs at night, and they were all great friends by the end of the trip. Show-offs. Clearly, the Beatles’ rough edges were George and me, and I’ve always wondered why Brian didn’t realize that.
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After the rehearsing and the recording, we had the filming of the movie, a summer tour of Europe interspersed with trips back to England for the debut of the soundtrack album in June and debut of the movie in July. Our first extensive American tour took up the end of July, all of August, and into September. We went into the studio in September to record our next album and single, followed by a UK tour from early October through early November. We followed that up with Christmas shows for the week before and the week after Christmas – and this included a show on Christmas Day itself! In between were peppered photo shoots, press conferences, interviews, and television appearances. For the whole year of 1964 we had a grand total of 23 days off.
What this meant to us on a personal level was that we became impossibly close. While we were so busy, we didn’t have time to bicker or posture between ourselves. We were truly all for one and one for all during this period. We lived together 24 hours a day for almost this entire period. Paul and I – in addition to everything we did with the Beatles – had the added responsibility of writing the songs, and we usually only had time to do that late at night in hotel rooms while everyone else was partying or sleeping. In 1964 alone, Paul and I wrote 32 songs! Out of those 32 songs, 12 were number one hits somewhere in the world, and 8 more placed in the top ten in the world. According to Billboard Magazine, this kind of successful productivity has never been equaled or surpassed by another act, except by the Beatles again in 1965.
Paul and I were constantly collaborating and cross-pollinating. In 1980, I told reporters that all of the songs that made it into Hard Day’s Night, the movie, were “mine” except “And I Love Her” and “Can’t Buy Me Love”, but my answer was misunderstood. When I said a song was “mine” or I “did it”, it meant that it was my original idea, and I was the primary sponsor of it. But especially in the 1963 – 1966 period Paul and I really didn’t know where one of us started and the other left off. I believe that this is something that is consistently – I would say in some cases even willfully - misinterpreted by most rock critics and biographers.
For example, in the movie’s title song “A Hard Day’s Night,” I came up with the idea based on a Ringo-ism, and I did the first draft of the main verse. But Paul wrote the middle eight and revised my verse somewhat. Then I sang the verse, and he sang the middle eight. No magic to that – the middle eight was in a higher key, and Paul’s voice sang it more comfortably. This song was truly a 50/50 product.
And I wrote the lyrics to “Tell Me Why” after Cynthia and I had a bitter argument about my never being home. Her main problem was that when I did come home, I was either off with Paul or I didn’t want to do anything but sleep. The song as I first started it was a great deal angrier than it was by the time it was recorded, featuring slashing drums, a pounding piano, and a relentless driving backbeat. I threw everything into it except the kitchen sink. I still remember Paul’s expression when I first played the demo for him. His eyebrows both went up to the stratosphere, in unison. This is what I have long called a “Two Eyebrow Event.” Paul is fairly even-tempered most of the time, so a Two Eyebrow Event is something I tend to notice right away. (Paul has the world’s most talkative eyebrows. I have had entire conversations with them.)
“What?” I asked him aggressively, seeing the flying eyebrows.
“You’re asking a question, but she can’t get a word in edgewise,” was his dry and pithy response. “Do you think I can play with the music a little bit? Make it sound more like a plea and less like a tank attack?” He came back to me literally 45 minutes later with a completely new tune so catchy I couldn’t get it out of my head for days, and we were done! Another 50/50 product.
Meanwhile, “If I Fell” – I wrote the verse and some of the music, but Paul made significant changes to the music in the verse that substantially improved it; he also wrote the music to the intro, and worked out the harmonies. What’s more, and this is another thing I think our biographers continually fail to understand about our partnership, “If I Fell” was inspired by Paul; he was the subject of the song. In other words, the lyrics would never have come to me if not for Paul.
“I Should Have Known Better” was mainly my work, although I had written it at a much slower pace. In the recording studio, Paul pointed out how fun and bouncy it was, and urged me to up the tempo. I thought this song was the best of the bunch after the title song, and then in walked Paul with his answer song - “Can’t Buy Me Love” – which he told me was inspired by “I Should Have Known Better”, only he wanted it dirtier and rockier, and he blew us all away. He got the A-side to the second single off the soundtrack album, and I got the B-side. I hated when that happened. And it happened all the fucking time. (To both of us.)
Then Paul outdid himself again and wrote “And I Love Her”. He held on to it for days before I even heard it. He played it for George Martin first. When I found out I was raging with jealousy. Paul and I had a huge row in his room over it. I had been in the studio, and saw the demo lying on George’s console, and I said, “What’s that?”
And he said, “Paul’s newest. It is really something special.”
“When did he write that?” I asked, dumbfounded.
“He played it for me a few days ago, and I’ve been working on the orchestrations.”
“Orchestrations? You’re doing fucking orchestrations?”
“Well,” George laughed, “Paul doesn’t want them. He prefers a Spanish guitar interlude. I’m trying to persuade him to do an orchestration. This is a brilliant song.”
At this point I was cold with rage. I put it in the machine and listened to it. This song had “Jane Asher” written all over it. I was overcome with such a powerful jealousy that I could actually feel myself vibrating. Jealous about what? Well: (1) jealous that he didn’t tell me about the song and share it with me first, (2) jealous of George because he played it for George first, (3) jealous of Paul because George thought his work was brilliant, and (4) jealous of Jane because Paul wrote such a beautiful song about her. Not necessarily in that order.
So, I banged out of the studio with George’s “John? Are you alright?” ringing in my ears, out the front door, got into my car, was driven over to the Ashers’ house, and charged up the stairs to the attic. He was there, at the piano, surrounded by bachelor detritus - he still does that; leaves doors open, coats in piles where he dropped them, keys and coins scattered everywhere. He looked up from the piano keys and was about to say “hi” until he saw my face.
“What?” he asked me, looking as though he dreaded my opening salvo. I can imagine him quickly flicking through all his recent transgressions against me and wondering which one I was on about.
And I just laid into him. My arguments were all mixed up and intertwined, so I would intermingle my George arguments with my Jane arguments, and then back to how dared he not play it for me first. I was raving mad! It’s a good thing he didn’t have anything of value in that room, or I think I would have destroyed it. I finally ran out of things to scream about, and my voice was hoarse, so I gradually petered out and was left standing, breathing heavily, and glaring at him.
Paul, ever the diplomat, said, “Well, I see you’re upset.” (?????!!!!??!!) That set me off for another 4 or 5 minutes, and then I collapsed in tears on the bed. He lay down on the bed next to me on his side, with his head propped up by his elbow. “I was afraid to play it for you. I should have, I’m sorry.”
“Afraid? Why?”
He gave me one eyebrow in response this time. “Gee, I don’t know. Maybe it would upset you?” He smiled at me encouragingly.
“I’m upset because you didn’t play it for me first!” I denied.
“And not because I - let me see if I can get this quote right - ‘wrote another granny song about my cunt of a girlfriend?’’’
“Did I say that?”
“And that’s not all you said.”
“Well, when I write about my wife, it’s usually about us fighting. I don’t write love songs about her, I only write love songs about you.”
“But you’re allowed to write a love song for her, you know. There’s no law against it.”
There we were: back to the poison pill - back to the grim reality of my existence. I wanted and needed only him, and I alone was not enough for him. My choices were to walk away, or to grin and bear it. And I simply could not walk away. That was totally out of the question. Now that you know my history with this song, you might better understand the dismissive comments I made about it in the ’71 and ’80 interviews. Please know that of course it is a beautiful song – a classic, because it has not only held up over time but it has seemed to have become more meaningful as the years have passed. But for me it is a very hurtful memory.
Strangely, perhaps the most controversy about authorship of one of the film’s songs surrounds “I’m Happy Just to Dance With You”. No, I didn’t mostly write it, and no, Paul didn’t mostly write it. This was a true “eyeball-to-eyeball” creation. Paul and I sat down to write a good song for George to sing. We were in the Miami motel when we wrote it. I said in my interviews that I came up with the idea for the song, which is true. Paul and I had just had to leave a nightclub early (George and Ringo were still there) because we had to get back and write a song. As I left the club, George was dancing with a very pretty girl, and he had the most beatific smile on his face. So the words “happy” and “dance” stuck in my head with reference to “George”, and that is why I suggested the song title to Paul. But the rest of the song was written in total collaboration. You can tell in the opening chords and in the middle eight, especially, with the progression of the chords and harmonies in the minor keys, that this was Paul’s work. I simply can’t compose at that level of sophistication, whereas Paul does it while he sleeps! (More about that later.)
Anyway, I can’t tell you who wrote what line or note, except for the fact that I didn’t compose the music in the middle eight. And it is quite possible that we both wrote some of the lyrics or music simultaneously. This may sound freaky, but sometimes we both come up with the same notes or words at exactly the same time! Paul’s comment on this phenomenon is “well, that note [or phrase or chord or word] really wanted to be born!” Still, people expect us to be able to tell them who wrote what note and what word. Sometimes we remember, and sometimes we don’t. And sometimes we remember wrong.
But aside from the credit given to one or the other of us in the press, there was still that pressing concern: the song credits on the album and single itself. When Paul got his copies of the new album, again he saw that all of the songs were credited to “John Lennon and Paul McCartney.” This time he blew a fuse and wasn’t to be satisfied with a “must be a mistake” argument. He left me out of it and went straight to Brian. Accompanying him was Jane Asher’s father, a noted psychiatrist, who was there to provide Paul with adult moral support. (Paul wasn’t even 22 years old yet and must have felt at a disadvantage in front of the older more sophisticated Brian.) Brian later told me what happened, and I paraphrase what he told me as follows:
Paul and Dr. Asher showed up after making an appointment with Brian, and Paul confronted Brian over the fact that he had not corrected the ‘mistake’ concerning the song credits. Brian was very apologetic, but this time he claimed that the song publishing company felt that the names ‘Lennon & McCartney’ had become an important brand, well known to the press, and that it had monetary value on its own, and so the song publishing company felt that to change it now would be a financial mistake. Paul pointed out that the song publishing company was owned equally between him and me, and so who exactly at the song publishing company could overrule the agreement he and I had made together? Brian said it was an ‘executive decision’ by him after being told to do it by the publishing company’s lawyer. Paul demanded to know the name of this lawyer; he wanted to meet with the man. Brian then tried to change the direction and began to reassure Paul that the order of names didn’t imply more importance for the first name - obviously one name had to come first, and it was best that the credits stayed the same, like Lieber and Stoller, and Goffin and King, two other rock ’n roll songwriting partnerships which were selected alphabetically. All the advisors said so. Paul demanded to know why he wasn’t told about this before the records were pressed and distributed - why was Brian trying to sneak it past him? Brian lied and said it had slipped his notice, and he apologized for forgetting. Dr. Asher then told Brian that it might be necessary for Paul to get his own legal advisor on the issue and then have his own representative meet with these so-called advisors to the song publishing company. This upset Brian very much, not only because he was worried Paul might find out about his perfidy and sue him for conflict of interest and breach of fiduciary duty, but also because he was afraid it would destroy the Beatles if Paul found out that I was the one behind it all. Brian had to agree to set up a meeting for Paul to meet with the company’s lawyer, but he advised against hiring a separate legal representative, as it would ‘hurt the band.’ Paul agreed to this resolution.
As soon as Paul and Dr. Asher were out the door, Brian called me. It took him a while to get hold of me, and when he did he explained that Paul was on the warpath. I was unreasonably irritated by this information. From my perspective, I thought Paul should have ‘gotten over it’ by then. He should have just accepted this was the way it was going to be, with no further questions. Brian was freaking out on the other line about it, so I finally said to him, “I’ll handle it; don’t set up a meeting. It won’t happen.”
My way of ‘handling’ it was to call Paul. As soon as he was on the line I went on the offensive. “What’s your problem with my name going first? Everyone agrees it sounds better this way!”
Paul responded wryly, “It doesn’t sound better to me.”
“Well, fuck you! This is the way it is going to be, so leave off! I’m sick and tired of hearing about it. Everyone knows we both are the songwriters, it doesn’t matter whose name goes first!” I was shouting down the phone line.
There was an absolute silence. It went on so long I thought he had hung up on me. But, finally, he said in what could only be described as a ‘dead’ tone of voice: “You were behind it all along, weren’t you?” It was a rhetorical, not an actual, question.
This silenced me. I could hear the sound in his voice, and it reminded me of the dead voice he had used to talk to me that time in Hamburg when he’d left the band. I had to soften the blow, quickly. “No, of course I’m not. They made a mistake the first time because usually they do it alphabetically and then once they’d made the mistake enough times, they decided they want it that way always because it was getting publicly known.”
“Who’s ‘they’ John? That’s what I can’t get Brian to explain. Sometimes it is the lawyer for the song publishing company. Sometimes it is he, acting on the instructions of nameless ‘advisors.’ Sometimes it is the record company making a ‘mistake.’ Why is it so impossible to get a straight answer?”
My response, as I recorded it in my journal, was short and to the point: “Obviously, Brian thinks it is now in our best interest to have the credits read the same way every time. He is just having a hard time telling you this to your face, because he doesn’t like to hurt your feelings. He feels bad about it; you know how he is. You shouldn’t give him such a hard time. Get over it already, and grow up! It’s not the end of the bleeding world.” I then hung up.
I could hang up on Paul while he was on the phone, but I couldn’t ‘hang up’ the strong feelings of suspicion and distrust that were sowed in Paul’s mind by this sorry saga of the song credits. He did not raise the issue again with Brian, nor did he raise it with me until over a decade later, but Brian and I both knew he had been deeply hurt and felt betrayed by it, and he hadn’t forgiven us for it, and probably never would.
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Another problem that percolated to the top of my ‘trouble list’ in mid-1964 was the sudden and unwelcome reappearance of my long-lost father, Alfred Lennon. He sold his story to a tabloid: “John Lennon’s father works as scullery at London hotel while son is millionaire.” I saw this headline before Paul did, which meant I was freaking out before he could get to me. He knew I would freak out, and within one hour of my reading about Alfred Lennon, he was on the phone to me. “What the fuck?” He yelled over the phone, “Where the hell did he come from? The last we heard he was in New Zealand!”
He was referring to the fact that this is where he allegedly went after I refused to go away with him when I was 5 years old, in 1945. (I found out later that he might never have actually settled there.) I had not heard a single solitary word from him since then. Now, almost 20 years later, he was in London and selling his story to the tabloids. Paul cross-quizzed Brian Epstein, and figured out that Alfred had earlier tried to contact me through Brian, and that Brian had given him some money to go away. It obviously hadn’t worked.
“Not enough money,” I commented, after Paul filled me in.
Brian set up a meeting for me with Alfred. I wasn’t trying to reopen a relationship with him. I just wanted him to leave me alone. He was a real fast talker, and full of shit. It was humiliating meeting him, because he was so flash. He was all “pity me, pity me” and I wanted to tell him that he made all his choices, and I made mine. How dared he show up when I was a grown up and a success with his fucking hand out? This was just another form of emotional blackmail, like when he tried to talk the 5-year old me into leaving my mother and going off with him.
I met him at a pub, but wouldn’t go alone, so Paul went with me. Paul carried most of the conversation, as Freddy Lennon spun a bunch of sea stories and other bullshit about his medical condition and the problems in his life. Paul was great. He would listen to one of Freddy’s complaints, and he would say, “Oh, that’s too bad. That’s really sad.” And then he wouldn’t offer any solutions (money). So, Freddy would come at us again, using another sob story. It was so transparent that I was embarrassed in front of Paul. Paul saw my anxious look, and whispered in my ear, “He has nothing to do with you.”
In the end, he weaseled himself into my life for a few months, but I would find him stretched out on the sofa in my sitting room shouting at the football teams on the TV and drinking too much beer, and Cynthia and Julian didn’t feel comfortable in their own home when he was there, so she would take Julian and leave when Alfie was hanging about.
I explained this problem to Paul, and he asked me, “Do you want me to get rid of Freddy?” And I looked at him with gratitude and relief and asked, “Can you do that?” “No problem,” Paul said, “My pleasure.” So he comes over to my place, walks into the living room where Freddy is stretched out on my sofa watching my TV, and projected into the room:
“’Eh! Alfie! You and me! Down the pub! On me!” Alfie shot up off the sofa and was out the door before I could say, “Bye, Alfie.”
About four hours later, Paul came back, dragging Alfie with him. Alfie was out of it, and Paul said, “Man! That bloke can drink!” Paul dragged him up the stairs, and he and Cyn tucked him in to bed. Then he came downstairs and told Cyn and me that Alfie had agreed to move away to Blackpool – for a price. He wanted a seaside cabin, with all expenses paid, and “his pub tab”. Paul then called Brian, and gave him instructions. Brian finalized the details, and the next day Paul drove over to make sure Alfie lived up to his word. Alfie thought Paul was his new best friend, and kept trying to hug him and give him kisses on the cheek as he got in the car. Meanwhile, my son Julian had rushed out of the house with his arms up, begging for Paul to pick him up. When Paul did so, Julian wrapped his little arms around Paul’s neck and gave him a kiss on the cheek. We all waved bye to Alfie as the car drove away, and Paul - still holding Julian as if he were his son instead of mine - turned to me with a smart-ass look on his face and said, “What is it with you Lennons, anyway? Always with the hugs and kisses!” I smacked him in the back of his head with my hand.
Alfie left me alone until he was diagnosed with cancer, in 1968. Bless Paul’s little heart.
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Filming on A Hard Day’s Night started on March 12, 1964 and concluded at the end of April 1964. Of the six and a half weeks on the set, we only spent about 4 and a half weeks actually filming. We spent 2 weeks recording the songs. The only natural actor in the bunch of us turned out to be Ringo, who was absolutely delightful playing himself. The worst of us was Paul. I teased him incessantly about it at the time, both in private and in public - which was mean (whenever has that stopped me?) - but even back then it was clear to me why Paul could not be comfortable in front of a moving camera. He cannot display his true emotions to others, and he resents the transparency of the live camera, especially since he has such an expressive face. In acting you have to use your own emotions to infuse your character with real life, and Paul simply will not allow himself to do that sort of thing. Richard Lester, when I interviewed him for this book, told me:
“Paul was a great disappointment to me, because of the four of you, based on the still photos and performance footage I had seen and the range of expressions I saw from him in them, which I studied before we started filming, I thought he would be the most interesting of the four of you to film. He is certainly the most photogenic; the camera just loves him. I didn’t sufficiently appreciate that still photography and moving photography are two different things. A still photographer can take a whole roll of film, and choose the one or two moments where the subject lets his guard down. You can’t do that in film. I tried to help him put his reserve behind him, but he wouldn’t go there, so sometimes he appeared a little stiff. I did my best to edit around it, and I think I did a reasonably good job.
“On the other hand, he was the most fun of all four of you to film when you were singing. He appeared to have none of the stiffness there, and was full of life and expression – especially in the “And I Love Her” segment; I had more fun filming that scene with that exquisite face - using the shadows and light - than I think I’ve ever had in filming an actor. I remember my editor and I would sit and stare at that footage over and over because it was so fascinating. At every angle and with every alteration of the lights and shadows, his face looked completely different, but still beautiful. My editor turned to me at one point and said, ‘I think I’m in love’. And this guy is not gay! I knew exactly what he meant, and I’m not gay either! It is clear that he feels more comfortable expressing himself through music than he does through talking or acting.”
My tendency to embarrass Paul about his acting abilities in front of the press was a typical Lennon bullying technique. I felt I was entitled to do anything to keep him in line. Of course, it was only an illusion of keeping him in line, because the truth is there is no reining in Paul McCartney or his talent. It has a freaking life of its own, and any attempt to corral it will end in failure. All I succeeded in doing was hurting his feelings and embarrassing him in public. Sorry Paul.
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In the Beatles’ first full U.S.A. tour we started on the West Coast, coming down through to Las Vegas on August 19, and then Seattle on the 21st, and then to Los Angeles, arriving on the 22nd, where we were scheduled to play at the famous Hollywood Bowl for two nights, the 23rd and 24th.
Las Vegas was a trip. In the summer of 1964 it was just coming off the high times of the “Rat Pack” of the late fifties and earlier sixties. While Sinatra still performed there from time to time, the nightclubbing life had become much seedier by the time we were there. We expected to see dapper cool dudes in tuxedos swanning around with highball glasses clinking in their hands, while calling each other “babe.” There was none of that. This was before the huge build up in the ‘80s, and even before Elvis’s heyday in the late sixties, early seventies. It was – to be honest – kind of a “spent” place. One could see all the former playboy playgrounds, but they were deserted and in disrepair.
Upon our arrival, we were informed that it was a “long-standing” Las Vegas tradition that the former heavyweight champion Joe E. Lewis would greet VIPs and introduce them in their press conferences. Being British, I’m afraid the four of us exchanged knowing looks about that word “long-standing”. Las Vegas was a complete desert in 1940, and there we were – 24 years later – and it already had a tradition! The Beatles had gone to school in 300-year old buildings.
At the time, boxing was not a popular sport amongst the proper classes in Britain; it was considered to be an underclass sort of thing – like, my Aunt Mimi for one never even said the word “boxing” in that context in her whole life. It was just not one of those things you thought or talked about if you were from a decent home. It was for Irish travelers, and the merchant seamen who came to Liverpool port from all sorts of unsavory places. Now, again, in only our second trip to America, we were being shoved in front of a boxing champion to publicize boxing matches. We worried that this meant we were considered “lower class” entertainment too! However, dubious, we went along with this “long-standing” tradition of being introduced by Joe E. Lewis.
Within 30 seconds of meeting him, the Beatles were in love with him. What a magical person! His exotic speech (he was from New Orleans, and we had never heard that Cajun-influenced twang before), his huge hands – they literally were like baseball gloves – and his brilliant warm smile with perfectly gleaming white teeth all combined to put a spell on us. We had about a half hour to talk with him before the press conference was scheduled to start, and although we had intended to use the time by taking a much-needed quick rest, instead we gathered around him and begged him to tell us his stories about being a boy in New Orleans, and his rise in the boxing world, and all of his adventures. When he spoke of his boxing matches, he discussed them the way military technicians describe a battle after it is over - all the feints and strikes and strategic withdrawals. We were utterly enthralled. The 30 minutes flew by so fast that we were upset when our press agent, Derek Taylor, interrupted us and started giving us instructions on how the press conference was going to work. There is a picture of us all sitting around Joe, and looking really pissed off while Derek gave us the rundown. It brings the whole experience back to me, and I’m so grateful the photo exists.
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So our stay in Los Angeles was probably the highlight of our 1964 U.S. Tour. First, and most importantly, this was probably the first truly professionally promoted concert the Beatles had ever performed in. By that I mean the producers (two popular Los Angeles disc jockeys who were also successful businessmen) knew what the hell they were doing, and how to take care of talent and make everything flow. For example, our promoters hadn’t booked us into a hotel; they had rented a Bel Air mansion complete with pool, a chauffeur, a housekeeper and a chef to take care of us for the three nights we were there. Our every need was catered to. Capital Records – which is headquartered in Hollywood - was underwriting some of it, so as to spark interest in the Beatles with “the industry” (which is what the entertainment business is called by veteran Hollywood types).
The administration at the Hollywood Bowl was first rate too. Everything was the best quality, everything was on time, and everyone we talked to had years and years of lighting, sound, and stage engineering experience.
The Hollywood Bowl gigs were something different for us. We’d never done a show in an amphitheater before. Our outdoor gigs had all been on the backs of flat back lorries and small-town fete platforms. It was a magnificent theater with a huge shallow pool in front of it, and the pool had fountains. The acoustics, in 1964 terms, were fantastic - state of the art. When we got there for our dress rehearsal, we all four of us stood on the edge of the stage, gazing across the pond up into the hills, and seeing the rows of seats fanning out in front of us. It was a wondrous view. Paul suddenly shouted at the top of his lungs “let’s all run to the top!” and we jumped off the stage and went running up the middle aisles and up and up. Paul and George made it all the way to the top. I was bent over and gasping for air about half way up, and Ringo made it a little bit further. The really disgusting thing was that as I was still walking up, Paul and George ran past me on their way back screaming “Whoooo!” so they could hear their echo between the strategically located hills which act as a kind of sound dome for the theater. I appeased myself by thinking. “They’re a lot younger than me.”
When we all got back, laughing and punching each other, and Paul and George giving each other grief over who got to the top first, I looked over at the Bowl administrative officers and they had the goofiest smiles on their faces. One of them turned to Brian Epstein and said, “They’re just boys, aren’t they? Somehow, they’ve been built up into these dangerous renegades. But they’re only just boys!” Brian smiled and nodded. He then turned to us and said:
“That’s it, boys, fun time is over. Time to get to work.” He often told friends of his that managing the Beatles was “one part fond parent, and three parts no nonsense school master.”
Show promoters quickly learned that when the Beatles went to work, the Beatles went to work. The youthful boys who had been yodeling down the canyon just a few moments earlier, suddenly turned into hardened professionals. We knew our job, and we knew how to get in and out of sound check and dress rehearsal efficiently and effectively. When we were working we were all business. This made a big difference for us, because the business people who invest in the music business hope for that from the artists they invest in, and rarely get it. The Beatles would never give you anything but 100%, 100% of the time.
Performing there was like an otherworldly experience. Girls were running willy-nilly through the pond to get at us, followed by huge clumsy police officers with all their gear. It was like watching an English music hall comedy routine in some ways, or Monty Python. The acoustics were so much better than the ones we’d had to deal with in large convention halls. We could actually hear ourselves sing. (This encouraged George Martin to attempt to make a live album of our appearance at the Hollywood Bowl a year later, in 1965. He judged the tapes not good enough to be released at the time, but the fact was it was his idea to do a live record before any other pop or rock artist had thought of it. The tapes were finally released in the 1980’s after modern editing equipment made it possible.)
The Hollywood Bowl at night was a magical place. The fantastic vista of the bright California sunshine at rehearsal was replaced with a wonderland of lights and textures. The pool was lit up and glowed a surreal aqua at our feet. The shell behind us was lit with several shades of colored lights, and they changed in hue every few minutes behind us. And when we looked up into the seats –we could see all the different seating sections as separate islands – lit up by aisle lights. It was the most beautiful location we ever played, in my opinion.
>>>>>>>>>
February, 2006
The sand was hot between his toes, and he was watching the outreaching fingers of surf work their way closer to his shadow. John looked up and then scanned the vista around him. The Pacific Ocean was aqua-colored. It reminded him of the color of the pond in front of the stage of the Hollywood Bowl. Maybe that is what triggered his memories. It was late morning, and the sun was beginning to get a bit too warm. Conscious of his propensity for skin cancer, John pulled on a lightweight long-sleeved shirt, and covered his legs with a towel. He opened the beach umbrella so it cast shade over him. He then leaned back in his beach chair and sighed contentedly. El Nido was the best medicine.
Paul had been sunbathing with him earlier, but unable to sit still for any prolonged length of time, had decided to take a jog down the beach. He was well out of John’s vantage point, since their little cove was sheltered on both sides by rocky promontories. It had only been about 30 minutes since Paul had left, and John figured he would only start worrying in another 30 minutes. It was natural for John to worry about Paul; if truth be told he hated to be out of Paul’s presence for even a minute. He could grudgingly allow Paul 60 minutes to himself, so long as he didn’t get kidnapped, murdered, swallowed whole by some sea monster, or pulled away into oblivion by a rogue wave. John chuckled at his own paranoia. He reopened the letter he had been reading earlier, and started from the top again. It was from Mary. It read:
“Dear Dad-John, [John chuckled at the nickname she sometimes called him],
Missing you and Daddy very much. Things just aren’t as funny, crazy, interesting, or compelling when you two aren’t around. Stella and I were talking about that the other night. We were trying to figure out how to bottle and sell it. Maybe then we’d be as rich as you!
Big news! Tell Daddy – Stella is pregnant again. She’s due in mid-August! We’re all praying for a girl this time!
The grandkids are doing great. Stella’s Miller is trying to walk, although he isn’t even a year old yet! We think he has Daddy’s expression on his face when he’s trying to walk. It makes us laugh. You know the one? All fierce concentration and determination? I can’t believe that Arthur is almost 7 years old. Just a few more months. He isn’t babyish anymore, and I find myself missing the baby Arthur. Still, you can’t freeze them in time. At least I have Elliot to baby. But he’ll be 4 in the summer. If my marriage was still strong, I would have had another baby by now, I think. I miss having a baby.
Alistair has been pushing me to go into couples’ therapy. I wish I believed he really wanted to be with me, and grow with me, and contribute equally to our partnership, but in truth I just suspect he misses Dad’s money. I hate to declare failure, though, so I said I’d go. If there is any chance at all I can salvage the marriage I will take it.
Can’t wait until you get back, although I know you both deserve a long break in your secret hidey-hole. I think it is terribly romantic. Anyway, when you do get back, give me a call, because we have so much to talk about!”
John folded the letter. Paul had gone gaga when he heard Stella was pregnant again. John, too, was excited. He’d never really had a family until Paul’s family had adopted him, and now his family cup was literally flowing over. He secretly hoped for a girl, too. The three boys were great – but a girl would be different. He knew he was a sucker for little girls.
Paul! Where the fuck was he? John looked towards the side of the cove from whence Paul had disappeared. He saw no sign of him. Despite his earlier promise to himself not to worry until 30 more minutes had passed, John got up and started trudging down the beach. He wanted to get around that rocky area so he could see beyond it. He had almost reached it when he saw Paul picking his way through the rocks at a jogging pace, and his heart started to beat at a normal pace again. Relief. And joy. And amazement. Relief that the world hadn’t swallowed Paul up; joy at the mere sight of the man he loved; amazement that Paul had chosen him to love.
next chapter?
Date: 2017-11-27 06:17 am (UTC)When are you posting the next chapter of Last Year's Echo? I'm dying to read more!
Lots of Love,
Monique
no subject
Date: 2022-02-01 02:31 am (UTC)