When They Were Boys (2 page)

I walked outside, under a large canopy. It was still raining. I sat down at a picnic table and started reflecting on this strange and sensational reunion between the two of us.

“It don't come easy.” It didn't for Starkey, aka Ringo, whom I watched slowly walk down a narrow, metal staircase, dressed in a bathrobe with a towel
draped around his neck. He waved, tenderly, and smiled as he prepped for act one of the show. After all, the drummer had been given up for lost before he finally found a way to surface from oblivion. And that's why the magic room was so magic, and the evening so special. It was especially so for the men assembled in that room, the flesh and bones of stars whose spotlights had faded, legends scattered to the winds by a changing business. Some of them, like Ringo, were felled by substance abuse; others by fate. No surprise was it at all that some of the band members in this most-unusual green room were in the process of resurrection. Lazarus would have been proud.

With a little help from his friends—and they, with a lot of his own help—Ringo was unselfishly prepared to chart the course for the rest of his career. It was an act of grace, a display of kindness; it was part of the fiber of the boys who, back in the Liverpool days and nights, made the joy and dreamed of the music they could make and the stories they could tell. In an era of celebrity misfits and coarse role models, the four dreamers from so long ago still stand out, for their character as much as their intrigue. And there is plenty of that, as you will soon learn.

The road to glowing stardom and success is paved with more than gold. It is hard and scathing, and sometimes treacherous. We all know what happened at the end, which to this day has been an endless ending to an unlikely story. But the story of how Richie and his three mates came to that point really starts at the beginning, and I'm talking here about the exit from the womb, and the arrival in a dark, dank, and battered city, where all hell was breaking loose in a daily struggle for survival. It was there, amid the crushing bombs and abject poverty, that the story of the Beatles really began.

On the 1989 stage in Wisconsin, Ringo feigned a loss of memory as I quizzed him about the touring days. After a few minutes, his mind seemed to stir. His eyes lit up. We recalled together the crazy nights and the crazier crowds and the tumult.

At the end, he just smiled.

“Remember, Larry.”

“Yes?”

“We were just boys then, just boys.”

“Just boys,” he added for emphasis.

The “boys” became men and the men endured in a way that few world icons endure and evolve, making an imprint larger, in some cases, than the tenure of some world leaders.

***

The spotlight moves 1,200 miles east to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, the White House. The date is May 30, 2010.

The sun shines brightly on the East Wing of the president's house. An anteroom is set up for cocktails and finger food, the invitation-only crowd beaming with the excitement generally reserved for a superstar. But this was not Barack Obama's night. The superstar is somewhere inside the intense security wall of the White House. On event days, his own security bubble resembles the president's, its layers so deep. But on this day, his private security detail waits outside. After all, the star is inside the president's bubble.

The East Wing is known as the first lady's wing, including her offices and the headquarters of the White House Social Office, which has carefully planned this special evening.

I arrived, along with other invited guests, holding what was described to me as the hottest ticket to any White House event in decades—the annual concert (taped for later broadcast) and presentation of the Library of Congress Gershwin Prize for Popular Song. The recipient was Paul McCartney, who was, at the early hour of my arrival, not to be seen. As I walked down the corridor of the ground floor of the East Wing, I saw other entertainers gathering, along with members of the McCartney family led by Paul's affable brother, Mike McCartney. But with the excitement building, I had little understanding of the grandeur and scope of the extravagant event I was about to witness, until I scanned the embossed program booklet and the profiles inside, listing a collection of creative genius:

                
British singing sensation Corrine Bailey Rae

                
Rock legend Elvis Costello

                
Dave Grohl of Nirvana and Foo Fighters

                
Piano jazz legend Herbie Hancock

                
Grammy winners Emmylou Harris and Faith Hill

                
The Jonas Brothers

                
Chinese pianist Lang Lang

                
Jack White, rocker and actor

                
Jerry Seinfeld, strictly for laughs

                
Stevie Wonder; would he sing “Ebony and Ivory” in duet?

It was a breathtaking lineup. And at 7:25 p.m., a voice somewhere in the East Room announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, the president of the United States, the first lady of the United States, and Sir Paul McCartney.”

Paul, dressed in a black show suit, with a collarless shirt, took to the stage and immediately started into “Got to Get You into My Life.” I watched him carefully. I thought, “It's like, well, it's just like 1964 or 1965 all over again.” Frankly, since I was the only one in that room who had been there in person, stage-side, during those heady times in the sixties, it was a clock stopper—but there was also a shocker. The years had put some age lines on the famous boyish face! But the body moved quickly to the rhythm of the music, and the classic composer and cowriter of the most delicious anthology of music in the modern era wasn't missing a beat. Was I the only one who could appreciate all the years that passed, and the continuity of vibrancy that remained in the never-ending story of Paul and the “lads,” as the older American reporters liked to call them in those blood-flushing, enrapturing early days? I think so. I know that I was probably alone in my thoughts, but I was beaming quite naturally at the irony of fate, time, and the coincidence of my presence.

The next ninety minutes were bathed in greatness, the kind you rarely see on one platform on any given night. As the other artists sang, Paul sat in the front row, mouthing the words and enjoying each unique version of some of his greatest hits. “How amazing,” I thought. “All the way from Merseyside to these heights. All that way in a journey of fame and glory, but never conceding excellence.” And yes, Paul and Stevie sang “Ebony and Ivory.” And yes, it was unbelievable.

When the music ended, the forty-fourth president of the United States, Barack Obama, took the stage. His brief but thoughtful comments
illuminated the meaning of the honoree.

B
Y ITS VERY DEFINITION, POPULAR MUSIC IS FLEETING
. R
ARELY IS IT COMPOSED WITH AN EYE TOWARDS STANDING THE TEST OF TIME
. R
ARER STILL DOES IT ACTUALLY ACHIEVE THAT DISTINCTION
. A
ND THAT'S WHAT MAKES
P
AUL'S CAREER SO LEGENDARY
. I
T'S HARD TO BELIEVE THAT IT'S BEEN NEARLY HALF A CENTURY SINCE FOUR LADS FROM
L
IVERPOOL FIRST LANDED ON OUR SHORES AND CHANGED EVERYTHING OVERNIGHT
. . . .

O
VER THE FOUR DECADES SINCE
, P
AUL
M
C
C
ARTNEY HAS NOT LET UP, TOURING THE WORLD WITH THE BAND
W
INGS OR ON HIS OWN; ROCKING EVERYTHING FROM SMALL HALLS TO
S
UPER
B
OWLS
. H
E'S COMPOSED HUNDREDS OF SONGS OVER THE YEARS, WITH
J
OHN
L
ENNON, WITH OTHERS, OR ON HIS OWN
. N
EARLY TWO HUNDRED OF THOSE SONGS MADE THE CHARTS—THINK ABOUT THAT—AND STAYED ON THE CHARTS FOR A CUMULATIVE TOTAL OF THIRTY-TWO YEARS
. [L
AUGHTER AND APPLAUSE
.] A
ND HIS GIFTS HAVE TOUCHED BILLIONS OF LIVES
.

I enjoyed the remarks, although I believe the president did not adequately cover the enormous and creative influence of John Lennon on Sir Paul's life and times, which were and remain our times as well. But even that miscue couldn't diminish a very special moment in time.

Soon the show was over. The people, about two hundred of them, were exiting to a brief postevent reception. I walked across the room and said, “Paul, it's Larry.”

He looked back. And then he shouted, “Oh my God, it's Larry! It's Larry Kane! Look at
you
.”

“Look at you,” I answered.

He grabbed me in a big bear hug. He whispered, “It's so great to see you.”

We chatted the private chat of people who have shared the same experience, and both thoroughly enjoyed our brief reunion.

The truth is that I have never been a “fan” of anything. I've always enjoyed great performances, but that special night, in of all places, the White House, I felt like, acted like, and was totally enveloped in fandom. And as I left the East Wing a little later and hailed a cab, I started thinking back over the years
and realized just how truly lucky I was to have been part of the beginning. But of course, my beginning with the Beatles was not the real beginning, which occurred long before 1964 and has always been a subject of fascination and mystery.

After all, Paul was just a boy when it all began—a little younger but just as wise as his writing companion and fellow genius John Lennon and the leader of the All-Starr Band, and a bit older than George and his guitar-mastering magic fingers.

I first met the Beatles in February 1964 during their brief visit to the States, and first joined the Beatles on tour on August 18, 1964. But two decades before that, their journey began. This is
that
story.

Was the Beatles' success story improbable? Yes, more so than you know. But it is a story where all things
were
possible. In many ways, the prequel to the Beatles' arrival in America was more exciting than the main event.

Filled with characters dimmed or forgotten by the lapses of history, marked at times by despair and defeat, punctuated by moments of drama and fate, this story was mostly created by the energy and talent that overcame the most overwhelming odds.

My search for the characters was daunting. There are no doubt lies reported in this book, because there are so many contradictory reports. But everyone gets their moment of truth.

This is also a story about a city and its people. Alfred Lennon and his wife, Julia Stanley, would burn their own bridges of love and companionship in the parks and bedrooms of Liverpool, but flickers of art and banjos and guitars would burn inside a son. Harold Harrison, a friendly bus driver and stalwart union leader, taught his wiry son to respect the music, and to listen to its wonderment. James McCartney of the north side brought a middle-class work ethic and a charismatic personality to his son. And the less financially endowed Starkeys of the South Side of Liverpool saw their shy and sickly son, obsessed by the music, emerge into a man, and a talented one at that. The Sutcliffes encouraged their only son, Stuart, to paint
and
to play guitar. The legendary Mona Best played den mother to her drummer son, Pete, and to the early makeshift band. A tense, consistent, and frequent writer, Bill
Harry, wielded a pen as mighty as a guitar, and he had plenty of company—the likes of Beatles pressmen Tony Barrow and Derek Taylor, and others. The promoters, some of them still promoting, are vibrant in life and in recollection. The catalyst, Beatles manager Brian Epstein, is the most fascinating of entrepreneurs, provocative and endearing.

There are many heroes and heroines, risk takers, doubters, and hundreds of others who claim a piece of the history. To the people of Liverpool, their names stand beside the rich and the famous as architects of a revolution in culture. Sit beside early Beatles promoter Sam Leach, or longtime Beatles insider Tony Bramwell, or the original Quarrymen, and you feel what it was like to be there when the beginning began. You sense the uncertainty, the determination, the doubts, and the perilous flights of fancy and dreaming that live in young people. Ironic, isn't it? Youth is fleeting, but in the case of the Beatles, the music freezes them in time.

Time is the greatest enemy of history. Real events and people are distorted, exaggerated, and often forgotten. We are dependent on individual and collective memories. And there are so many people who try to shape their stories to suit their own biographies. That is expected. After all, what is memory but a hazy, subjective reconstruction of the vivid reality from so long ago?

Such is the history of the Beatles—conflicting stories, betrayal, love (lots of that), intrigue, and real or imagined adventure, some of which I shared while touring with them.

But about one fact there is absolute certainty. Before the world noticed, before the glare overwhelmed them, it all came together in the period from 1957 through 1963, when they were boys.

And it was all preceded by a bloody nightmare that would define the city and the boys.