The Beatles 1969 Tour

[BungalowTom]

Anyone fancy reading a story I've been writing? It's pretty long, so I'll just post a bit at a time. I haven't divided it into chapters yet, but I will at some point. Anyway, here's the first part....


It doesn’t seem all that long ago that I was lucky enough to tour with the Beatles. Nobody ever thought they would tour again after Brian’s death in the summer of 1967. Truth be told, the lads had made up their minds a year earlier that they would never again subject themselves to the torture of the open road, laying themselves at the mercy of rabid Beatlefans everywhere. The constant screaming for three years had deafened them from even entertaining the possibility of hustling all over the world, just to be screamed at, and not listened to.
But in 1969, it wasn’t like that anymore. Oh, to be sure, there were still teenyboppers screaming over their idols. But the real heartthrobs now were more likely to be flash-in-the-pan TV and recording stars like Bobby Sherman, who had recently displaced the Monkees from the covers of 16 and Tiger Beat just as the Monkees had knocked the Beatles off the covers just two years earlier. Mania had its limits. Most of the group’s core fans now were the serious rock listeners, the stoned hippies, even a good share of the over-30 crowd who were trying to make sense out of what was once “rock and roll,” but now was increasingly being called simply “rock.” Rolling Stone was fast becoming the chronicler of this movement. But the rock and roll world was now split into two camps. The camp that followed the teen idols still screamed. The ones who loved the Rolling Stones, The Who and Jimi Hendrix were too mellow to scream. They were there to get stoned, and listen, really listen, to the music.
The Beatles had long ago ceased to be teen idols. Growing facial hair and making albums like Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band took them out of the teenyboppers, and into the fans who took their rock and roll seriously. The Beatles didn’t know that the landscape had changed that much, and no wonder. Retreating into the recording studio, and their own private lives, they had sealed themselves off from the outside world. They couldn’t appreciate how much pop culture had changed in just three years’ time.
That’s where I came in. I felt like I was caught in between the two worlds, straddling the transition of each. I was 13 in 1964, just becoming aware of girls, and even more aware of the kind of effect the lads had on young ladies everywhere. Not having had any heroes in my life up until that point (except for JFK, but by early 1964, I was sick of mourning and feeling sick for our country), I was ripe to fall right in line with the rest of the USA, and succumb to Beatlemania. Not just for the orgasmic effect it had on the girls all around me, but because I too felt swept up in something bigger and more powerful than my own little life. Not that the Beatles made me feel insignificant; far from it. I felt connected to them, somehow. Like we were all on the same wavelength. We were all young, and we were all cool. Actually, I never lost that feeling, not even approaching middle age. The Beatles for me were the epitome of hip, and I’ve never thought otherwise, even more than thirty years after they ceased to exist as a band.
As much as I loved the Beatles, and would have loved to have met them, I could never bring myself to go to London and actually hang out with the Apple Scruffs, wasting whole days of my life just to catch a glimpse or say a quick hello to John, Paul, George or Ringo. For one thing, I knew that they had an aversion to fans stalking them. For another, I was too busy with my own life. I was working to make a career for myself, which, ironically, is how I came to not only meet the Beatles, but to actually work as a junior roadie of sorts for the tour no one ever thought would happen. The Beatles World Tour of 1969 would be their swan song as a group. And I was lucky enough to be a part of it.

[BungalowTom]

Here's a bit more. Let me know what you guys think. I'm not in the following part of the story...but I pop back in later!

It was the day before New Year’s Eve in London. Paul had convened the group for what he called an “informal” meeting at Apple.
“What’s this all about, Paul?” John asked grumpily. “Me and Yoko are putting together an exhibit.”
“Sod that, John,” Paul shot back at him. “This is Beatle business.”
“Oh,” John sounded disappointed, though not surprised. Paul was determined to keep the group working, no matter how badly he and George needed a break. George had meditation; John had Yoko. Paul and Ringo had nothing else in their lives besides being Beatles.
“We’re going back to work, lads,” Paul said, with a grin on his face. Like that would help.
“Bloody hell,” George muttered.
“What’s the matter, Paul”, John sneered. “A double LP that we just put out isn’t enough?”
“What’d you have in mind?” Ringo asked, though with his half-closed eyes, he looked like he didn’t care anymore than John and George did.
‘We still owe a third film,” Paul said cautiously, his eyes darting around the conference table, trying to gauge a reaction.
“We’re not doing another bloody ‘hard day’s night,’ Paul,” George snapped. John lapsed into a stony silence. Nobody wanted to mention “Help!”
“No, we don’t have to do any bloody acting,” Paul announced. He hoped this announcement would elicit cheers from the other three. Instead, they just sat there, smoking ciggies and waiting to hear what Paul had in mind.
He didn’t keep them waiting long. “I thought we’d do a film of us making an LP,” he said hopefully.
“We already agreed to do it,” John snapped. “What’s news about that?”
It was true. While they were making the white album, officially titled, “The Beatles,” Neil had told them he had gotten telegrams from United Artists that the Beatles were still due a third film. Apparently, the modest box office of “Yellow Submarine” hadn’t lessened their desire for another Beatles film. The public wanted to see their heroes in the flesh. Cartoon images weren’t going to do it.
Paul knew that. He also knew that the lads were tired of being idolized for anything other than that what they considered themselves to be: the four best damn musicians on the planet. They didn’t want to have their hair pulled, or their clothing ripped apart. They simply wanted to be regarded as being what they truly were: the best damn band on the planet.
Of course, by this point, John and George were sick and tired of being part of the best damn band on the planet. Somehow, it wasn’t enough. John had Yoko telling him he was bigger than the other three of them put together. George was getting messages from his guru and his meditation that pop stardom wasn’t important, though he would never have had the luxury of sitting home learning to play the sitar for weeks at a time were it not for his Beatle stardom.
But they had gotten to be spoiled lads, and Paul felt like it was up to him to remind the others how big they still were, and that they still owed their public something.

[Ringo Starr]

O.O
Wow. That's real good.

[iamthewalrus]

Yeah I agree. It's amazing.

[meredith_k]

Aw. Paul.

I really like it! Can't wait to hear more.

[BungalowTom]

Wow...thanks, guys. I'm glad you like it. Here's more:

“I’ve booked Twickenham for 2 January,” Paul calmly said. “To make a film of us recording.”
“We don’t record there,” John snapped. Paul saw him exchange a look with Yoko, who was beginning to look visibly agitated.
“It’s a film set,” Paul said. “They’ll know how to film us there.”
Ringo nodded in agreement, but he didn’t say anything. He knew that Paul was right, having just returned from filming “Candy.” He knew better than the others, even Paul, what a movie set had to offer.
But John and George were not so easily convinced. Paul tried to reassure them. “You won’t even know there’s a film crew there.”
“Yes, we will,” George replied, irritably. “We’ll be in a film studio.”
“We just put out a double LP, Paul,” Ringo said, finally speaking up. “Do we have to record again so soon?”
Paul looked at Ringo, with fire in his eyes. He expected dissension from John and George, not from the ever loyal Ringo. But he still spoke in a calm voice, trying to quell the growing tension in the room. “Yes, we do. Mr. Epstein would want us to. He’s not here anymore. We don’t need a daddy figure anymore. We can do it ourselves.”
“I don’t have any bloody songs written,” John said grumpily.
“I do,” George snapped, then added sarcastically. “I’ll be glad to bring them in if you think they’ll be up to Beatle standards.”
“It’s gotta at least be as good as ‘Obli-Da-Obli-do,’” John said caustically, getting the title wrong on purpose.
“Come on lads, we’re the bloody Beatles,” Paul said. “We can do anything we want to.”
“Yeah, but none of us want to,” George said. Although that wasn’t quite true. George had been writing songs like crazy the last year or two, but there didn’t seem to be room for more than two or three on any album. Except the recent white album, George had managed to get four recorded. Then again, it was a double LP, and four out of 30 songs was still a shitty ratio. He was still miffed that a fifth song he’d recorded, “Not Guilty,” hadn’t made it onto the album. He was beginning to take his own status in the group as seriously as John and Paul seemed to. Which was not very.
In short, the Beatles in late 1968 were not the happy moptops of yesteryear. They still had the desire to record and make great music, just not necessarily with each other. They needed something to pull them together again, something outside of themselves. Paul’s attempts were falling rather flat.
As fate would have it, the Beatles had a couple of surprise visitors on this bitter, bitchy day. While the four sat in stony silence, there was a knock on the door of the conference room. They looked up, grateful for the distraction. Mal poked his head in the door. “Mick and Keith dropped by. You fancy seeing them?”
There was no need for last names. The Beatles and the Rolling Stones had been friends for years, if not quite mates, at least very close acquaintances. Hell, they’d written their first hit, “I Wanna Be Your Man.” Partied with them at the London clubs and each others’ houses over the years. Shit, maybe they were mates!
Mal pushed away from the door frame as the Glimmer Twins pushed their way into the conference room. The Stones didn’t wait for formalities.
“Hullo, lads,” Mick smiled. “How’s it going, then?”
“What the hell were you thinking of with ‘Satanic Majesties?’” John asked.
“Same as you with ‘Pepper,’” Keith grinned. “We tripped, and decided to record it.”
“Must have been a bad trip,” John mumbled.
“Well, at least we’re still playing,” Keith said, sitting on the conference table, pulling a doob out of his jacket pocket. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“We were just talking,” Paul said slowly, a little defensively. “We’re going to be starting a new LP soon, and film ourselves doing it.”
“That’s cool,” Mick said, trying to suppress a laugh as Keith lit his joint, and took a pull on it.
Keith passed the joint to Mick, and spoke up while inhaling all the smoke he could. “You really oughta play live again, you know.”
“That’s what I’ve been saying,” Paul practically shouted. “But these buggers won’t listen to me.” He pointed at the other three while he said it.
Mick took a deep hit, and smiled. “Keith’s right. There’s nothing like playing live.”
“I’d sooner live in an asylum,” John muttered.
“We did,” George said sharply, “when we did tour. It was insane. If I’d known what Beatlemania was going to be like-“
“It’s not like that anymore, man,” Keith said, taking another hit, and then passing it to Paul, who had his hand eagerly reaching out for it.
“How do you know?” John grumbled. “You’re not the fucking Beatles.”
“Hey, we’ve had screaming girls, too, you know,” Mick said, a little defensively.
“Not like us,” George said. “If you’d had, you wouldn’t want to tour ever again, either.” He took the joint from Paul, and hit what he could of the rapidly dwindling cannabis.
“They’re not screaming anymore, man,” Keith said. “I’m telling ya.”
“They’re actually listening now?” Paul asked, clearly open to the idea.
“Yeah,” Keith said. “It’s not like what it was in ’64. It’s a whole different trip.”
Paul looked over at John and George hopefully, but their faces were blank. It was almost like they were trying hard to not let what Keith was saying have any effect on them. Still, they didn’t look disgusted, so Paul took that as a hopeful sign. He’d been on them for months about playing live again. They’d had no hesitation snarling at the idea from Paul. But Mick and Keith were apparently reaching them.
“Look mates,” Mick said, “it doesn’t make any difference to us if you just wanna hide in here the rest of your lives. Frankly, we like being the biggest band on the road. But you guys are collapsing. You’re stale. The stuff you’re recording now is, frankly, crap.”
“You should talk,” John said testily. “You ripped off Sgt. Pepper with Satanic Majesties.”
“Yeah, but we followed it up with Beggar’s Banquet,” Mick shot back. “What have you lot done? The bloody white album?”
“Shut up!” Paul nearly shouted. “It’s the bloody white album! We also did ‘Hey Jude.’”
“And ‘Revolution,’” John threw in.

[BungalowTom]

“Okay, so we’re all making great bloody music,” Keith said, in a tone that suggested he was merely humoring the four lads from Liverpool. “But the difference is, we’re playing ours live. We’re keeping it fresher.”
“Who wants to play the same bloody thing night after night?” Ringo grumbled from behind his drum kit. Everyone looked at him. It was the first thing he’d said since Mick and Keith came into the studio.
“We do,” Mick said sharply. “We don’t think of it as ‘playing the same bloody thing night after night.’ Every night is different. You don’t have to play the exact same set all the time, you know. We don’t.”
“Well, people would expect us to play our hits,” Paul said.
“That’s my point,” Mick was saying, looking at Paul like he was daft. “You have more hits than you could possibly fit into one show. You can change it around, and do some new stuff, too.”
“They probably just want the bloody mop tops,” John said cynically. “I’m not doing ‘She Loves You’ or ‘I Wanna Hold Your fucking Hand.’”
“So don’t!” Keith said, breaking into laughter. “Do whatever the hell you want. The fans are still buying your records. If all they wanted was the bloody mop tops, do you really think they’d still be buying them?”
Paul looked around nervously, playing devil’s advocate with the Stones, hoping it might bring John and George around. “I don’t even know if we could recreate what we do in the studio on stage-“
“Bollocks,” Mick said. “not every song is ‘A Day In The bloody Life.’ You’ve got plenty of simpler songs you can do.”
None of the Beatles said anything. They looked around at each other, then at Mal, who ambled over to them. “Would anyone like a cup of tea?”
“Sure, Mal,” George said.
“Mal,” Keith stopped him before he walked off. “Wouldn’t you like to see these lazy blokes go on the road again, and actually play as a band again?”
Mal’s face lit up, but he looked over at the lads. Paul smiled faintly, John and George gave him death stares and Ringo looked like he didn’t give a shit either way. Mal knew he had to be cautious in his answer.
“I’ll go along with whatever the boys want to do,” Mal said, suppressing his grin, or trying to. Mal had good reason to be excited: he always got laid on the road. Puttering around London, he could still get some action, but it took a little work at times. On tour, it was totally effortless.
“Nice dodge, Mal,” Keith laughed.
“I’d better go make some tea,” Mal said, and he hurried off. That was one of the many things the Beatles loved about Mal: he always knew when to make an exit.
“You’ve got him bloody trained, don’t you?” Keith snickered at the Beatles.
“Fuck off,” John said. “Mal’s one of us.”
Mick looked at his watch. “We should be going. We have to be somewhere.”
“Yeah,” Keith said, almost sneering. “We have a meeting with a tour promoter. He’s gonna get us more money for this tour than we got for the last two combined.”
“See ya,” Mick gave the Fab Four a quick wave, and he and Keith were quickly out the door. The Beatles didn’t say anything. John and George picked up their guitars and began playing aimlessly. Paul soon joined in, and Ringo gave them a steady drum beat. They jammed for nearly an hour, each one seemingly isolated in his own thoughts, but connected enough to follow what the others were doing musically. Paul said later he wished tape had been rolling during that jam. What they were improvising was much better than “Flying,” the last loose jam between the four of them that actually ended up being recorded, for Magical Mystery Tour. They may not have been talking much, Paul thought, but they were still connecting musically. There was life in this old band yet. But Paul knew he had to be careful. He couldn’t be too pushy about this. Not like when they were laying down a track, and Paul pushed them to get it just right: he had to be more subtle about this. He was on a bloody mission. He had to think of it in those terms. A mission is what it would take to get John and George to agree to tour again. Hell, he’d had a hard time getting them enthused about doing one single concert to promote the stuff they were working on now. How the hell could he expect them to want to tour again? He knew he’d have to walk on eggshells for this.

[BungalowTom]

So, the first thing he had to do was back off a bit on “urging” them to carry on. More than once, he had tried to give the lads a pep talk of sorts, by reminding them that just because they no longer had “Mr. Epstein” to guide them, it didn’t mean they do for themselves. At least he thought it was a pep talk he was giving them; the others seemed to think he was lecturing them, bossing them around. It was why, now that Mick and Keith had left, no one was saying much of anything. John and George were aimlessly strumming their guitars, lost in their own private, separate worlds. Ringo sat at his drum kit listlessly, as if waiting to be told what to play, when and how. God, Paul thought, looking at each of them. These guys are a bloody drag. He thought how easy it would be for him to just get up and leave, and go off with his girlfriend, Linda, up to his farm in Scotland and record his own bloody album, and to hell with the band.
But he didn’t really mean that. These were his old mates. The three guys he loved the most in the whole world. Wistfully, Paul looked at the three of them and thought sadly, can’t we play together again, and be happy doing it?
“Sod this,” Paul said out loud, putting his bass down do hard, it vibrated with a long note. “Let’s just pack it in, then. We’re not enjoying this, why are we doing it?”
John and George stopped strumming and looked at Paul, dumbfounded. This was a side of Paul they weren’t used to seeing. He was the last one they expected to pull the plug on a Beatles session. John and George looked at each other, then back at Paul. Was his question redundant?
“We’re here because you told us we had to,” John said icily. “Do you really think we would have bothered otherwise?”
“Yeah,” George chimed in. “Coming to a film studio in bloody January, right after holiday? I wasn’t ready to come back to work.”
“It shouldn’t be work,” Paul snapped at George, irritated by his surly attitude, but trying desperately to play to it. “We never thought of it as work in Hamburg, or Liverpool. Certainly the films never felt like work.”
“We enjoyed all that,” John said, listlessly, while Yoko looked at him blankly. “But it’s a drag now.”
“Well, I don’t want to force you to do anything that’s a drag,” Paul said, in a chipper voice that masked how desperate he felt on the inside. He was taking a gamble. By cutting them loose now, he was hoping they’d all get their sick-of-being-Beatles moodiness out of their system for a couple of months. Maybe by then, they’d be willing to discuss a tour.
“The schoolmaster is letting us sag off school,” John said, removing his guitar strap from around his shoulder, and putting his axe on the floor, up against a speaker.
“Take a holiday, lads,” Paul said in a jolly voice. “A long holiday. But come back,” he added, almost pleading.
John and George grinned at each other, as they got up to leave. Then John put his arm around Yoko to walk out with her, George scowled, John caught it and there was a chill in the air once again. Within a minute, John and Yoko were both out the door. George looked over at Paul. “So, we’re taking a break, then?”
“Right,” Paul said. “We all need one, don’t we? Otherwise, we won’t ever want to play together again.”
“And you think we will, after we come back from holiday?” George looked at Paul, his eyes narrowing.
“I’m hoping you will,” Paul said confidently, though he also sounded a bit shaky. “If we stay together much longer without a break,-“ Paul couldn’t bear to finish the sentence.
“We’ll never want to play together again,” George said flatly, finishing Paul’s sentence for him.
Paul looked at George like he had just slapped him. George was vocalizing Paul’s worst fear, and he hated him for it. And loved him, all at the same time. George gave Paul a tight smile, a small wave and a “see ya,” and he was gone. Paul hoped like hell his gamble was going to pay off. He hated to think of the alternative: that he had just broken up the Beatles.
Ringo had been sitting silently at his drums until now. But now that John, Yoko and George had all left, apparently Ringo felt free enough to put his sticks down, move out from behind his drum kit and talk to Paul alone.
“You think they’ll be back?” Ringo asked Paul, as he put on his coat.
“Yeah,” Paul said quietly. “They’re good lads, they’ll be back.”
“I don’t know,” Ringo said solemnly. “John only wants to be with Yoko, and George likes hanging out with Eric.” As in Clapton.
“I know,” Paul said tightly, facing the door that half of the Beatles had just walked out of. “But they’ll be back. We’re the bloody Beatles.”
“Yeah, but they’re sick of Beatlemania,” Ringo snapped. “Hell, we all are.”
“But it’s not like that anymore,” Paul said earnestly, turning back to face Ringo. “You heard Mick and Keith. It’s not like that anymore.”
Ringo shrugged. “I heard them. But the Stones never went through what we went through, Paul. You know that.”
“Maybe, but they had screamers, too,” Paul countered. “And they told us, nobody’s screaming anymore. Don’t you think it’s worth another try?”
“Maybe,” Ringo said noncommittally. “If they come back, I’m in. But I’ve got films to do. I’ll see you later.” He gave Paul a pat on the back, and he was out the door, just as quickly as John and George had been.
Paul stood there alone, on the film set at Twickenham that was supposed to convince the world was a Beatles recording studio. Michael Lindsey-Hoggs, the film director, stepped forward from the battery of cameras and faced Paul. “Is this a wrap, then?”
“For now,” Paul said, still gazing at the door. “But they’ll be back.”
It was shortly after this aborted recording session that I came into their lives. I happened to be living in London at the time, which was a lot more exciting than my life in Detroit. I was only here for six months, on a student exchange program through the University of Michigan. I was majoring in political science, and though I had indicated on my application for the exchange program that I wanted to study the British political system, it was bullshit. I came here to meet the Beatles. Still, as much as I may have wanted to, I was determined not to be an Apple Scruff, hanging around on the outside of Abbey Road, or wherever they happened to be, waiting for a glimpse and a curt acknowledgement from any one of the four that would confirm my devotion. No, I was way more ambitious than that. It’s true that I desperately wanted to cross paths with them, but it would be as someone who could help them. I didn’t want to be just another fan clawing my way to get close to them. I had too big of an ego to settle for that.

[iamthewalrus]

Once again amazing job!

[Ringo Starr]

Nice! I'm enjoying this so far

[BungalowTom]

I'm glad you guys like it. Here's a couple more installments...

I saw my chance late one afternoon, outside of Twickenham. Mal Evans, their ever faithful roadie and personal assistant, was lugging all of their equipment out of the studio. He had gathered up John’s, Paul’s and George’s guitars, and their speakers, and set them just outside the front door, while he went back inside the studio to get Ringo’s drums. The Beatles themselves had long since gone home. Typically, they didn’t even go in to the studio until about this time of day. But Twickenham was a movie studio that kept more regular hours than the biggest rock and roll group in the world kept. So, because of the film schedule, they’d had to show up at about 8:00 in the morning. Meaning that by noon or 1:00 in the afternoon, they were ready to call it a day, and get the hell out of there. I stood there watching Mal, wondering if I should approach him and offer to help carry the gear. My indecision lasted five seconds. I stepped forward.
“Need a hand, Mal?” I asked casually.
His eyes narrowed as he looked at me, sizing me up. I had my hands in my pockets, trying to appear as nonthreatening as possible.
“No, thanks, mate, I got it,” he said, though he did look a little tired, and the equipment he had piled up looked like more than he could carry at one time. “These are expensive instruments, you know. Gotta be careful.”
“I know,” I said, with certainty in my voice to reassure him. “I was in a band for awhile, and we had to carry our gear ourselves. I know how to handle this stuff, believe me.”
That wasn’t a lie. In high school, me and three buddies really did form a band. We called ourselves The Kings, thinking that naming ourselves that would eventually make us the kings of rock and roll. And we would have been, too. All we lacked was talent. We did play a few gigs, but we busted up about a year after we graduated.
Mal looked at me again, expressionless. I’m sure he thought I was just another Beatle fan looking to get close to the group. He was standing near the door, and I could tell he wanted to go back inside and get Ringo’s drum kit, and then load everything up in the van. But he looked at me uneasily, like he was afraid to leave me alone with the guitars and the amps, thinking I might pinch something for a “souvenir.” Which I would never do. As big a fan as I was, I had too much respect for the group to do something that low.
“Right, then,” Mal said nervously. “Help me carry this to the van.” He pointed towards the parking lot closest to the building, on the right. “It’s that white van, right over there.” He gathered up the three guitars, and I picked up two of the three amps, and silently followed him to the van. He unlocked the back of it, while I set the amps down gently. I watched him load the guitars, and I handed him each amp, which he packed expertly. It wasn’t a huge van, but he still had plenty of room for Ringo’s drum kit, because of the efficient way he was packing everything.
Mal slammed the van door shut, and nodded at me. “Thanks for your help, mate.”
“No problem,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant. The truth was, I was excited as hell. I got to handle the amps that kicked out the sound of the three guitars that made the most exciting music in rock and roll-Beatle music. But I was determined to play it cool. “Do you need help with Ringo’s drums?”
“No, I think I got it,” Mal said, giving me a little smile.
“Okay, then, see ya,” I said, ambling away slowly. My plan was to be laid back, not clingy and maybe “bump into him” again later here. But the stars must have been aligned just right for me that day. A short blonde woman came running out of the film studio, and almost crashed into Mal as he was heading back to the entrance. Fortunately, I was still close enough that I could hear what she had to say to him.

[BungalowTom]

“John just called,” she said frantically. “He says he needs you as soon as you’re done dropping the instruments off. He’s at his flat.”
Mal sighed. “Okay, thanks.” I was facing away from him, again, not to appear too eager and was making a show of walking away, when he called out to me. “Hey, mate, what’s your name?”
“Tom,” I said, turning back towards him eagerly. But trying not to show it.
“Will you help me load the drum kit, and ride with me to the studio, and help me unload everything there?”
“Sure,” I said casually.
“Or you can follow me in your car if you like,” Mal said, starting towards the door.
“I’m an American, here on an exchange program,” I explained. “I don’t have a car.”
“Right then, help me out and I’ll drive you back to wherever you’re staying.”
“Sure,” I said, while my heart was racing. Would I be lucky enough to actually meet one of the Beatles? Dare I have such grand hopes? I quickly followed Mal into the studio, and helped him pack up Ringo’s drums. We loaded them into the back of the van, and we climbed in the front and took off quickly. Mal drove fast, really fast. When he was on a time crunch with any one of the Beatles, he was a monster on the road. He cut off other cars, ran lights when there was no other traffic coming and drove at least ten miles over the speed limit. He was on a mission for the Beatles; that trumped any old fashioned traffic laws. And being in London, I felt sure that if a bobbie stopped him, his intimate connection with the Beatles would save him from a ticket every time.
I stayed silent most of the drive. Again, I didn’t want to come off like an over eager Beatles fan. Thankfully, he spoke first.
“So, Tom, you’re a fan, are you?”
“Yeah, I’m a huge fan,” I said eagerly. “I’ve bought every record, I’ve seen all their movies,-“
“All right,” Mal interrupted me. “So if I have to drive over to John’s flat, before I take you home, you’re not going to embarrass me, are you?”
“No,” I answered, with more certainty than I actually felt. “I’m not a girl. I’m not gonna tear their clothes off. I’m cool.”
“Right, then,” Mal said, turning onto Saville Row. “Because if I get a message from John here, I won’t have time to take you home.”
“That’s fine,” I answered confidently. “I promise not to embarrass you.”
Mal looked at me like he wanted to believe me, but he wasn’t quite sure. As we pulled into the parking lot of Apple, I felt another huge twinge of excitement, wondering if we’d run into any of the other Beatles here. But I was determined not to betray myself. I kept my cool. How, I didn’t know, but as I hoped, it was going to pay off in the months ahead.
Mal drove to the Apple headquarters at 3 Saville Row. I silently helped him unload the band’s gear, and stow them in the basement studio. Apparently, they were all done recording at Twickenham. Then we jumped back in his van, and headed off to John and Yoko’s flat, a short drive away, from what he told me. I expected a luxurious flat of sorts, and was surprised when we pulled up to an ordinary looking building. And their flat was on the lower level. Mal parked on the street, and we hopped out, and descended the stairs to their door. Mal looked at me one last time, as if to say, don’t act like a fan. Be cool. Which I was totally prepared to do. Of course, on the inside, my heart was fluttering. I was about to meet John Lennon. Mal rang the bell, and then glanced at me again, to make sure I wasn’t going into convulsions. I was cool.
After a few seconds, the door opened. There was John, standing right there. He had almost a full beard, and a somewhat sullen expression. But there was no mistaking it: it was John Lennon, the guy who started the band that became the Beatles, the cheeky wit from “A Hard Day’s Night” and “Help!” He held the door open, and Mal and I passed through. I looked around. The place was sparsely furnished. Just a couple of chairs, a stereo system and a TV in one corner. Instead of a bed, there was a mattress in the corner of the room, with blankets and sheets all askew. A bunch of paintings and drawings rested against the wall next to the bed. Yoko stood nearby, as if guarding the precious art treasures, away from everyone else, watching us silently, but intently.
“Me and Yoko are putting on a happening,” John told Mal. “We need you to take some stuff over to the Indica.”
“Sure, John,” Mal said eagerly. As much as most of the Beatles’ old guard disapproved of Yoko, they had learned over the past year, not to register their disappointment with John. If the other three Beatles couldn’t dissuade him from spending all his time and creative energy with Yoko, the hired help had zero chance. So Mal acted like he always did: eager to help. Which was no act, he was.
John looked at me through his thick wire rimmed glasses. “Who’s this, then?”
I was about to step forward and introduce myself, but Mal cut me off. “This is Tom,” he said, solemnly. “He’s my assistant.”
John laughed out loud. “That’s bloody great! The assistant has an assistant!”
Mal laughed along with John, but he added, “well, I think I’m bloody entitled to one, don’t you?”
“Sure, Mal,” John said, chuckling. His good humor made me think he might be approachable. So, like an idiot, I rushed forward. “It’s an honor to meet you, John. I’ve been a fan since your first appearance on ‘The Ed Sullivan Show.’”
John looked at me warily, as he accepted my handshake. “So, you’re an American, then?”
“Yes, sir,” I said proudly, as if my country of origin would score me points.
“What the fuck is your country doing messing about in Vietnam?” He asked me, giving me a hard look. Like I was responsible for that.
I shrugged. “I don’t know.”
John soon lost interest in talking to me, and turned back to Mal, who was in the corner of the room, gathering up the paintings and John’s drawings, which were called lithographs, when they were encased in expensive frames.
“They’re going to the Indica, Mal,” John said. “Me and Yoko are putting on a show.” He chuckled, and then added, “since Paul gave us a holiday from the Beatles.”
I noticed the acidic tone in his voice, and even though I was a mere visitor, I couldn’t stop myself from piping up, “God, who’d want a holiday away from the Beatles?”
Mal turned and looked at me like he wanted to kill me. John gave me an icy cold look, then said, “you don’t if you’re a fan. But if you’re in it, it’s a different story, right, Mal?”

[BungalowTom]

Mal had his arms full of the first set of artwork. I quickly followed behind, and gathered up more. He chuckled nervously. “If you say so, John.”
“I do, you know,” John said, looking right at me. “You think being a bloody Beatle is so fucking glamorous, try being one. It’s a lot of bloody work.”
I followed Mal as he made his way out of the flat, and John turned his attention back to Yoko. As John closed the door behind us, I heard him say to Yoko, “Mal’s bringing a bloody fan along to help him out.”
I was glad Mal was parked so close, as the paintings and lithographs were getting heavy, encased as they were in their expensive frames. What also felt a little heavy was the sadness I felt at my first meeting with John. He seemed so bitter towards the band that he himself had started, and helped take to the “toppermost of the poppermost,” as he used to tell the other lads back when they were struggling to get noticed by more than just the lunchtime crowd at the Cavern, or the rowdy drunks in Hamburg.
Mal finished carefully loading the set of artwork he’d carried into the van, then took what I had carried, one by one. As he took them, he noticed my sad expression. “What’s wrong?”
I shrugged, handing him the last lithograph. “Nothing.”
“You’re disappointed, aren’t you?”
“At meeting John? Are you kidding?” I asked, but even to me, it sounded hollow.
“Get in,” Mal motioned, as he walked to the driver’s side. I climbed in, and sat in silence. I was lucky as hell to meet John Lennon, if only for a moment. I had gotten a lot closer to him in those couple of minutes than most Beatle fans would have dared to dream of.
Mal started the van, and pulled back out onto the street. He looked over at me, with a half smile. “Look, I know what you’re thinking. You’re disappointed that John is unhappy being a Beatle.”
“Yeah,” I said slowly, after a brief silence. God, I hated to admit that to their trusted roadie. But he seemed sympathetic, so I kept talking. “I didn’t expect him to be, like, a lovable mop top. I’ve followed them closely enough to know they’ve grown beyond that. I just didn’t expect he would be so bitter.”
“They’ve been having a lot of problems,” Mal said. “Most of which isn’t in the papers.”
“Do they all feel that way?” I asked Mal.
“Sort of,” Mal said, keeping his eyes on the road. “George is about as fed up as John, and Ringo is sick of the tension. It’s Paul that really wants to keep them together. If they broke up, it would shatter him.”
“Are they going to?” I asked, almost not wanting to hear the answer.
“I don’t know,” Mal said quietly. “I hope not. They’re all my friends. I’d hate it if they did. But at this point, I don’t know.”
“But John said Paul was giving them a holiday,” I said. “Maybe that’ll help?”
“I hope it will,” Mal said nervously. “He’s sensing that John and George are so fed up that they’ll leave the group without a second thought. He’s trying to prevent that.”
Mal lapsed into silence after that. I respected it, and didn’t talk for the rest of the ride. As traumatic as it would be for me, a mere fan, to endure the breakup of the Beatles, I could just imagine how displaced Mal would feel. Would he still have a job? He’d given up secure employment with the British telephone company to join them; was it all going to explode in his face? And if it did, who would he be loyal to? The one who called him with a job? What if they used him to carry negative messages from one to the other? Could he really do that? Suddenly, I knew I had no reason to mope. My life would go on as before. Mal’s wouldn’t.
We soon arrived at the Indica, and we unloaded John and Yoko’s artwork. Mal left instructions with the gallery staff as to how and when to display it, while I stayed respectfully in the background. Might as well, I told myself. There were no other Beatles to meet here.

[BungalowTom]

I climbed back in the van with Mal, and as he drove me to where I was staying, he said softly, “God, it was cool to meet the Stones.”
My ears perked up. As much as I loved the Beatles, the Rolling Stones were nothing to sneeze at. “You met the Stones?”
“Yeah, they came to the film studio today,” Mal said excitedly, and he recounted how Mick and Keith had tried to talk the Beatles into playing live again.
“They’re still touring, so they should know,” Mal said.
My heart leapt. The Beatles’ last tour had been three years earlier, in 1966. They had been assaulted in the Phillipenes, after security for them had been withdrawn, following their supposed snub of the Marcos family, who ruled the tiny island. Then there’d been assassination threats in the United States, following John’s “we’re more popular than Jesus” remark. They were already sick of touring by then. These two controversies sealed the deal. They would never tour again.
Mal and I discussed all this, and then Mal added, as teaser, I thought, “but you never know.”
Mal dropped me off at the flat where I was staying. My British roommates and I smoked a couple of joints, which made me ponder my extraordinary day all the more. I wanted desperately to tell my roomies about my day, but I didn’t dare. They were young men and women, and were rabid Beatle fans like me. I had been given a privilege by Mal, and I wasn’t about to violate it by blabbing. I didn’t need other people swarming all over Mal because of my big mouth. I managed to shrink my mouth to a very small size, even high. My connection to the Beatles, however tenuous, was far too valuable to risk pissing away.
They would have never believed me anyway. The two guys and the two birds knew when I arrived a couple of weeks earlier that I was a huge Beatles fan, and the first few days in the U.K. it was all I could talk about. But Sid, Leif, Nancy and Sue weren’t big fans themselves. Oh sure, they liked them, they assured me, but to them, rock and roll these days meant the Stones and Jimi Hendrix. The Beatles, they told me, were old hat. They were on the way out, and “besides,” Leif pointed out, “they don’t even play live anymore. What kind of band avoids playing concerts?”
So I kept my secret to myself. I was just superstitious enough to think that if I told anyone about it, I’d jinx it. Which wasn’t a wholly irrational way to think. My roomies may have thought the Beatles were yesterday’s news, but the press certainly didn’t. Any little detail about any of them was still front page news. Just from the short time I spent with Mal and John, I’d absorbed enough information to give Fleet Street a scoop, and they would have ate it up.
But I would never do that. I seriously doubted if there was enough money on the planet to make me betray what I knew to the blood thirsty reporters, because the second I did, I knew I wouldn’t be allowed within a hundred feet of anybody remotely connected to them. No amount of money was worth that. The best thing I could do, for myself and the Beatles, was to live my life like nothing ever happened and to carry on doing what I supposedly came to England to do: study. It wasn’t as exciting as hanging with Mal, but I had my own future to think of. I sifted through the British daily papers that I was required to read, and concentrated on getting up to speed with what Parliament was up to.
But it wasn’t nearly as exciting, or stimulating, as the day I had just had, riding with Mal, and meeting John. I tossed the papers aside, and in my stoned state, I laid down on my bed, realizing I was hooked. Not on any drug, but on meeting the Beatles. Today was great, but it wasn't enough. There had to be more. There just had to be.
Thankfully, I was occupied the next couple of days. I had a lecture to attend, and a session of Parliament to observe and take notes on.
Back in my flat a couple of afternoons later, I was sifting through my lecture and Parliament notes, when Sid came into my room. “Hey, you have a visitor. Some big guy with long hair.”
I shot up from my notes. Mal? Was it possible? But I played it cool with Sid. “Okay, I’ll be right there.” I put my notes away carefully, into my notebook, and shoved the contents into my desk drawer. Then, with barely contained excitement, I walked out into the front room. Sure enough, there was Mal.
“Hi,” I greeted him, with more than a little surprise.
“Hi,” Mal said back quickly, looking around the flat nervously, like he was afraid of being recognized. “Are you free?”
“Sure,” I said, forgetting about the notes I had to sift through to write a paper. “What’s up?”
“Come on,” Mal motioned hurriedly, gesturing with his hands. I grabbed my coat, and we were out of there in seconds flat. I climbed into the van, as he started it up. “Where are we going?”
“We’re going to Paul’s,” he said, without much expression in his voice.
My heart leapt. I was going to meet my second Beatle in as many days? I could hardly contain myself. But I managed to. The last impression I wanted to make was that of a starstruck Beatle fan.

[iamthewalrus]

Oh I love it! Can't wait to see what happens when he goes to Paul's!