Roll Up
I did something uncharacteristically touristy of me. I got myself to Liverpool and went on the The Beatles Magical Mystery Tour. I hate crowds, organized activities, scripted guides. But there I was. On a bus with all these things and 50 other Beatle-loving strangers.
Who are all these old people?
I sing “No Reply” to myself as I choose a seat. By the window. No one sits next to me. Good. I’m more than happy to be by myself. I want to revel in my own private nostalgia. We all, in our own narcissistic minds, feel that no one gets the Beatles quite like WE do. I’m no exception. I love them the most.
The guide starts talking. I put in ear plugs.
Here we go!
First we stop in the town where Ringo was born. Massive Ringo mural on the side of a building. I wonder if the locals walk by it every day like it’s just another building.
I love Ringo. How can you not? But what’s next?
The bus pulls over on Penny Lane and we all get off. You know. Photo opps. We pass the shelter in the middle of the roundabout. The barber shop (which is Tony Slavin’s Salon). It’s all there. Like Paul said. It was in his ears and in his eyes.
The cemetery where Eleanor Rigby is buried. Paul always managed to insert his youthful surroundings into his songs organically and poetically.
The tiny little street and home where George was born. Love it. Getting closer to the ‘holy grail.’
The churchyard where Paul and John met for the first time after John’s ‘gig.’ John asked Paul what he thought of his performance and Paul says something to the effect of, “Oh you know it was alright,” and proceeds to take John’s guitar, tune it, turn it upside down and play him a song. Deal sealed. Stars colliding.
Here it comes…
The house were John grew up. 251 Menlove Avenue. I’ve seen hundreds of pictures but this is different. It’s alive. That’s his bedroom window on the upper left. The window to the room where “Across the Universe” was gestating. 😳
Can we just pause the tour bus for an hour? Or two? I need to dwell. I need to…wait…shit! we’re moving!
Where next? Paul’s house. 20 Forthlin Road. O.M.G. O.M.G. O.M.G. I’ve seen these pictures too. It’s way less posh than John’s. It’s the house to which 16 year-old John Lennon would eagerly escape because his guitar ‘antics’ weren’t encouraged at home.
From inside that humble abode “Let it be!” was what Paul’s Mum would say to him and his brother Mike when they fought (says the tour guide).
Don’t make me Get Back on the bus! I need to let it out and let it in. But we’re moving.
On we go to Strawberry Fields. It was actually a girls’ orphanage adjacent to John’s backyard. Never knew that.
And the Cavern Club. A long, skinny, underground, low-ceilinged cave. (God help them if there’s a fire.) This is the space. That’s the stage. This is the air. The ghosts. I close my eyes. It’s all for naught. I can’t recreate them. No matter how hard I wish. It was so long ago. It will never be again. But it WAS.
I simply can’t include the Beatles in a typical conversation about music. They are a different planet from everything else. There aren’t enough words. They are endless and devastating.
I’ve been to Abbey Road. I couldn’t have asked for a better more thorough experience. I don’t need to go back. But I have to go back to Liverpool. No bus tour next time. I’ll hire an Uber and go to all the places again. At my leisure. Sit on the curb across from Paul’s and John’s houses and indulge myself.
I’ll trace the path John might have taken — the fastest route from Menlove Avenue to Forthlin Road where in the sanctuary of Paul’s bedroom he’d face a new mate who could dot his i’s and cross his t’s. And the boy whose bed they sat on would discover his other half. They’d complete each other. Unbeknownst to either of them at the time (along with 2 other mates who ALSO lived minutes away) they would change the whole fucking world.
I need more time to ponder this miracle and the proximity of it all. It makes me believe in things like God. Because how else?
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For folks who haven’t seen/heard my love letter to the Beatles before…Here is “George & John”…
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