Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! Read online

  Copyright © 2007 by Bob Spitz

  PHOTO CREDITS

  © Getty Images / Hulton Archive, p. i. © Mirrorpix, pp. viii, 14, 32, 52, 60–61, 72, 88, 112, 134, 154, 170, 188, and 206.

  © Corbis, p. 221.

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Little, Brown and Company

  Hachette Book Group

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  New York, NY 10017

  Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com.

  The Warner Books name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  First eBook Edition: October 2007

  ISBN: 978-0-316-02269-9

  Contents

  Copyright

  Chapter 1: AN INCREDIBLE DISCOVERY

  Chapter 2: BORN PERFORMERS

  Chapter 3: MOONDOGS AND SILVER BEETLES

  Chapter 4: THEIR BIG BREAK

  Chapter 5: THE TURNING POINT

  Chapter 6: BEATLE MANIA

  Chapter 7: THE BRITISH INVASION

  Chapter 8: THE BARDS OF POP

  Chapter 9: THE END OF BEATLEMANIA

  Chapter 10: WE’VE HAD IT

  Chapter 11: FROM BAD TO WORSE

  Chapter 12: THE DREAM IS OVER

  ENDNOTE

  DISCOGRAPHY

  SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  For Lily and Her Posse:

  Sylvia, Sarah & Lineth

  Chapter 1

  AN INCREDIBLE DISCOVERY

  “Miracles are for dreamers,” John Lennon once complained to a friend. Of course, this was long after an extraordinary event transformed him into a world-famous figure—and following a night when his dreams were most likely as vivid as an action-adventure movie.

  As miracles go, this one would last a lifetime.

  It occurred when John was sixteen, on a blistering hot Saturday afternoon, July 6, 1957, in a place that catered to divine intervention: St. Peter’s Church in Woolton, a village on the outskirts of Liverpool, England. John and his friends waited all year for the church’s annual garden festival, which was the biggest social event on the village calendar. It seemed as if the entire community turned out to mingle, listen to music, and await the crowning of the Rose Queen at the conclusion of the day’s festivities. There was something for everyone to enjoy, plenty of attractions to dazzle the eyes. Dozens of stalls covered the grounds that separated the sanctuary from the old church hall and spilled over onto two surrounding fields like a carnival midway. Long tables were set up on the grass, covered with sandwiches, cakes, and lacquered candy apples. Used books were stacked for sale, and racks of clothing attracted bargain hunters. Lemonade stands were posted across from wooden booths where children played ringtoss, darts, horseshoes, and other games to win fabulous prizes.

  For John, the festival was an all-out blast. No day ever took so long to arrive, passed so quickly, or seemed as magical. But this year, a special thrill raised his anticipation.

  In the past, only military bands had been invited to entertain at the festival. The crowds that lined the church field would cheer as men in stiff blue uniforms played marches and other patriotic music to pump up the excitement. But a crucial change had been taking place that affected what would be heard this year. Kids had begun listening to new types of music, including rock ’n roll and something called skiffle, a kind of souped-up folk music that had started a craze among British teenagers. Skiffle caught on because it was so easy to play; all anyone needed to form a skiffle group was a guitar or a banjo, a rippled wash-board, and a homemade bass, made by poking a broom handle through an upturned metal bucket and attaching a cord to pluck. The sound they made was unimportant. Skiffle was all about having fun.

  What Is Skiffle?

  Skiffle group the Rebels, circa 1956.

  © TERRY CRYER/CORBIS

  Before rock ’n roll caught fi re in the Liverpool clubs, jazz ruled. During intermissions, however, some of the musicians cobbled together a confection of sounds to fi ll the gap. They’d play homemade instruments like a “tea chest” bass, which was an old washtub with a strange broomstick-and-rope attachment, accompanied by a washboard and perhaps a guitar. Called skiffl e, the music was an odd assortment of American blues, spirituals, and folk songs like “Rock Island Line” and “Pick a Bale of Cotton.”

  It was the offhand charm of skiffl e that captured Great Britain’s imagination. Rock ’n roll was too much, too fast; skiffl e was a compromise. “It was music we could play right away and sound okay doing right away,” said the Quarry Men’s Eric Griffi ths. And it enthralled Liverpool audiences, not because it was new but because it was so unexpectedly familiar. It wasn’t long before most of the 328 clubs in Liverpool were involved in some sort of skiffl e show. And its greatest fan was a fi fteen-year-old boy named John Lennon.

  John and a few friends from the neighborhood had started their own skiffle group called the Quarry Men, after Quarry Bank High School, which they attended. It wasn’t really much of a band, nor was John much of a musician. He only knew a few chords on the guitar, which “he beat the daylights out of,” according to a friend. And the band itself just made sort of “a general noise.” But that did not seem to matter. The Quarry Men looked professional. They put up posters all over town and played at parties and local talent contests where you weren’t judged as much on ability as you were on spirit.

  As it happened, one of the boys’ mothers convinced the church festival committee that a skiffle band would give this year’s gala an extra shot of excitement, and she proposed the Quarry Men—most of whom, she assured the committee members, had been confirmed at St. Peter’s—as the obvious choice.

  The boys were understandably ecstatic. “It wasn’t simply the honor of playing there that excited us,” recalled Nigel Walley, who functioned as the group’s manager. “Everyone’s parents and grandparents would be there, as would all our friends.” So there was every opportunity for them to make a powerful impression.

  John was especially restless. As the leader, he thought of the Quarry Men as his band, and he was eager for them to put on a good show. Besides, he knew that his mother and aunt would be among the crowd, and it would be their first chance to see him perform.

  The Quarry Men weren’t scheduled to play until four o’clock. In the meantime, the boys drifted around the grounds and stopped to watch a Liverpool police dog obedience display, featuring Alsatians trained to jump through flaming hoops. The Band of the Cheshire Yeomanry—an outfit comparable to the US National Guard—was on the uncovered stage, warming up the crowd. It wasn’t long before they were replaced by the Quarry Men, who played a spirited set of songs—half skiffle, half rock ’n roll—that was greeted enthusiastically by the teenagers pressed around the stage.

  The Quarry Men perform at the Woolton church fete, July 6, 1957. The photo was taken fifteen minutes before John Lennon was introduced to Paul McCartney. From left to right: Eric Griffiths, Rod Davis, John, Pete Shotton, Len Garry. © LONDON FEATURES INTERNATIONAL

  John recalled, “It was the first day I did ‘Be-Bop-A-Lula’ live on stage,” and one can only imagine how he rocked out. The singing was no doubt loud and raunchy, the sound only slightly better than awful. John could never remember the words to songs, preferring to make up his own, which were often hilarious, as he went along. Sometimes he stumbled over words or just grunted, it made no difference to him, but today his improvisation was fairly sharp and witty. He spotted his aunt Mimi standing in the crowd and inserted a few clever lines about her on the spot, to every
one’s delight.

  Shortly before the Quarry Men were finished, they noticed a mate named Ivan Vaughan standing below them, off to the right of the stage, with another boy at his side. Smiles were exchanged, and somehow it was understood that they would all hook up after the show.

  Afterward, Ivan charged backstage to congratulate the Quarry Men on their performance. He said hello to everyone, then introduced his friend—Paul McCartney.

  “I think you two will get along,” he said to John, perhaps the understatement of all time.

  Paul was only fifteen but looked even younger, with a round, pudgy face, a tight little rosebud mouth, and droopy eyes like a spaniel’s. This isn’t to imply that he was an odd-looking boy. There was a handsome quality that came through in his features, as well as something strong and instinctive. Even as a teenager, Paul was rather clever about people, sizing them up and fitting in. It was clear that he was comfortable around older boys; nevertheless, John expected him to show a little respect, especially in the presence of such celebrated musicians. But Paul wasn’t intimidated; he came on like gangbusters.

  Instead of hanging back and observing, he picked up his guitar. “Mind if I play?” he asked, as they sat around on the backstage benches. Without waiting for a reply, he launched into “Whole Lotta Shakin’ Goin’ On,” a rock ’n roll hit that the Quarry Men had been unable to learn. Then, Paul recalled, “I did ‘Twenty Flight Rock’ and knew all the words.” In fact, he did more than just play the song, he performed it, cutting loose on the vocals, howling the lyrics with a little catch in his throat that made him sound like Elvis Presley. He wasn’t too shabby on the guitar, either. Nigel Walley remembered, “He played with a cool, authoritative touch.” There was a tricky little chord change that none of them had been able to figure out, and Paul handled it effortlessly, vamping on the guitar strings with the heel of his hand.

  Paul’s class at Liverpool Institute, circa 1955. © MIRRORPIX

  John saw right off that the boy had talent, not to mention plenty of nerve. He came on so loose and confident, without any inhibitions; there didn’t seem to be a self-conscious bone in his body. John couldn’t take his eyes off him. “I was very impressed by Paul playing ‘Twenty Flight Rock,’” he admitted. “He could obviously play the guitar. I half thought to myself, ‘He’s as good as me.’”

  In fact, he was better—much better. Paul was a gifted singer and an accomplished musician, while John could barely scratch out three measly chords. Plus, Paul had all the right moves. “It was uncanny,” recalled Eric Griffiths, another member of the Quarry Men. “He could play and sing in a way that none of us could, including John. It was so natural. We couldn’t get enough of it. It was a real eye-opener.”

  Afterward, a friend remembered, “John and Paul circled each other like cats.” Their interest in each other was deep, complicated, and strong—a magnetic pull. There was something they recognized in each other, but it also repelled them, perhaps because it struck too close to home. Neither boy knew exactly what it was, but they could feel it. Instead of becoming instant friends, they played it cool, acting polite toward each other, interested but not too interested.

  Later that night, walking home with his friend Pete Shotton, John appeared to be lost in thought. He didn’t seem interested in talking about the fun they’d had at the festival or even about the Quarry Men’s well-received performance. At first, Pete suspected that something was wrong, but he shrugged it off as one of John’s moods. Besides, Pete knew not to press his friend. It was a beautiful night, and they walked without talking most of the way. Finally, John broke the silence. “What did you think of that kid, Paul?” he asked Pete.

  So that was it, Pete thought. All this time, he had been worried that something serious was up, when John was simply preoccupied with that new boy on the scene, Paul—Paul McCartney. Pete was instantly jealous. He and John were best friends, best mates, and now he sensed someone else creeping onto their turf. Two’s company, three’s a crowd, Pete thought. But he knew how important music was to his friend, so he put his jealousy aside and answered truthfully. “I liked him, actually,” he said. “I thought he was really good.”

  John nodded and walked on in silence. He was haunted by Paul McCartney’s display of skill, the way he had handled the guitar so smoothly and with such panache, the way he’d sung all the correct words to the rock ’n roll songs. All of that led to a more important issue. He was thinking about asking Paul to join the band, but there were some built-in headaches that troubled him. “I’d been the kingpin up to then,” John remembered thinking. “Now I thought, if I take him on, what will happen? He was good, so he was worth having.” And John thought Paul looked a little like Elvis. “I dug him.” Still, the Quarry Men was his band; he was the rightful leader. All the other guys looked up to him. If he let Paul join, he knew they’d have to be equals, and he hated giving up any control of the group. He also feared being shown up by Paul, that Paul would expose his shortcomings as a musician.

  John remembered turning over many questions in his head that night. “Was it better to have a guy who was better than the [others]? To make the group stronger, or to let me be stronger?” Then again, would he really lose anything by inviting Paul to play with the band? Could Paul’s incredible talent possibly rub off on him, make him that much better?

  Even with all this uncertainty, the decision had already been made. Hearing Paul play and sing that night had really knocked John out. That had sealed it, as far as he was concerned. He couldn’t believe a guy who was relatively close to him in age and living only a short distance away could have so much to offer. What an incredible discovery! There was also something unique about Paul, something John couldn’t quite put his finger on, that intensified his interest. Hooking up with someone like that was too exciting to pass up. John sensed he was on the verge of something important. Sure, they could make some music together and have a little fun, but there was something else, something indescribable that intrigued him. Whatever it was would become apparent in time.

  Little did he know it would turn into the Beatles.

  • • • • •

  Miracles, such as they are, occur at the most unexpected times—and in the most unusual places. That John Lennon and Paul McCartney met at all is an amazing phenomenon; that it happened in Liverpool, England, of all places, is even more remarkable.

  Until the end of World War II, Liverpool was one of the most diverse and thriving cities in Europe. With its strategic location on a crescent at the mouth of the Mersey River where it meets the Irish Sea, Liverpool functioned as “the Gateway to the British Empire,” if not to the rest of the world. Water played a key role in Liverpool’s early supremacy. Most of the early twentieth century’s greatest sailing vessels, including the Titanic and the Queen Mary, were constructed by its master artisans, turning Liverpool into a shipbuilding center that catered to international trade. Not a day seemed to pass when fleets of tall-masted ships and steamers weren’t on the move in and out of the port, bound for one of the globe’s imagined corners. With its bustling docks and jungle of warehouses bulging cargo, Liverpool attracted sailors, traders, craftsmen, merchants, and dreamers of big dreams, people seeking their fortunes in a city loaded with opportunity.

  “In the early days,” George Harrison recalled, “Liverpool was really busy.” But during World War II, the city suffered terribly at the hands of the relentless German bombers. Every night, planes strafed the unprotected port, setting the docks on fire and causing severe damage to the surrounding area. “They were sinking millions of tons of shipping,” according to a local scholar who lived through the attacks. “We couldn’t feed ourselves, couldn’t restock our army.” Entire neighborhoods were destroyed in the air strikes that pounded the city. Ringo Starr remembered seeing “big gaps in the street where houses had stood.” Liverpool survived, thanks in large part to the American forces stationed nearby, but the city never recovered.

  Liverpool family left homeless f
rom bombing. © HULTON-DEUTSCH COLLECTION/CORBIS

  From that time on, Liverpool slid into a long and steady decline. Most of the shipping business moved south, closer to London, while Liverpool struggled to keep its head held high. “It was going poor, a very poor city, and tough,” John remembered. “But people [there] have a great sense of humor; they are always cracking jokes.” A tireless sense of humor was the way they kept their spirits up during times of great hardship. Strange as it may seem, almost everyone in Liverpool thought of himself as a comedian. In fact, many of England’s most famous comics grew up there, where being funny seemed to come naturally.

  “Liverpool has its own identity,” said Paul, who always felt a distinct difference living there. “It’s even got its own accent,” called scouse, a sleepy, singsongy drawl that made everything sound like a punch line. The word itself comes from a nautical term for a sailors’ stew consisting of leftovers, and in a way, scouse is a little bit of many regional accents mixed together and steeped in the sea. To John, however, it sounded flat and strangled. “We talk through our noses,” he said, none too complimentary. But there was something rhythmic to it, something almost musical, which should come as no surprise considering what eventually developed.

  In fact, music played a prominent part in Liverpool’s cultural identity. The city owed its fascinating character in part to a long and rich tradition of song, the legacy of a broad spectrum of immigrants who arrived in its port. In the early 1800s, “stout little ships” brought slaves from Africa and the West Indies, and with them came exotic melodies and rhythms that streamed into the cultural pipeline. Later in the century, nearly fifty thousand Irish refugees poured into Liverpool, adding their own music to the mix, so that the blend was multiracial and international.