Chapter One
"I hear the girls in America like a good yank . . . but prefer a limey."
John had said it with a straight face, but George was having trouble keeping his composure after hearing the remark. He and the band were about to go on stage at the Prom, and it wasn't their usual weekday lunchtime shift they screeched and stomped through at the Cavern, a hole of a place on the winding Liverpool Mathew Street. No, this was a serious gig, and George felt serious about it. At the Cavern they'd won over the common day crowd, most of all the little executives as they called them who were there to down the java, have a wee ciggie and enjoy a short break away from the confines of each office they had come from. Secretaries, electricians, banker assistants, para legals, shop boys and girls, plumbers, hairdressers, street sweepers . . . you name it, they all came in to see The Beatles. The real rave had begun after their apprentice stint in flesh and piss Hamburg. George had figured out that the appeal of a German band had replaced their utter failure as a Liverpool attraction, and now back in England, he'd done nothing to correct the assumption that they were German. Sometimes he even spoke in German to keep up the allure. The girls really liked it.
"What's this place yer going to again?" Paul asked George, adjusting the guitar strap he had slung around his right shoulder to keep a brand new hofner bass aloft. Paul was a leftie and a smart ass. A real diabolical wanker sometimes. But also, his best friend for many years.
"I told you, it's this place called Illinois," George said. "They have states there, and it's called Illinois. It's close to St Louis."
"Ah," John said, cutting in. "Chuck Berry."
"That's right," George said, feeling a wave of excitement.
Roll over Beethoven . . .
Their name was called and they all bounded to the stage amid a wild crowd. The stage had been laced with a decoration of fresh flowers. George felt his nose itch and a wave of humidity and oven-like heat smack down upon him from a set of stage lights; it instantly wrapped around his thin body. The sweat began to pop on his forehead and neck, and all he could think was that it wasn't as bad as the Cavern, but the perspiration had become worse now in the shiny suits their manager Brian had put them in, as if they were his own set of Cupie dolls.
Richard, or Ringo as he called himself based on a western character he loved, hit the kick drum and they all started up their new hit record, "Please, Please Me." It was more upbeat than their other songs with a fast succession of chords and big harmonies. Upon first hearing it, Brian had smiled and said, "It's a hit!"
Speaking of Brian, a gay Jewish businessman from the better parts of Liverpool who'd taken the band on seemingly from good taste and intuition, but more like a whim of fancy, stood on the sidelines and George caught a glimpse of the tall, soft-faced manager with hands white as the moon, arms crossed over his chest, supine smile on his beautiful face. This bloke had been the one to put together the right connections with EMI and Parlophone. He was meticulous in his job as manager, and press wrangler, so even if you wanted to call what he did magic, the truth was it had been a lot of hard work.
George had no qualms about Brian's secret sexual orientations, in fact, it added to their overall mystique. Another secret, like pretending to be German. The truth was, if Brian wasn't a homosexual, George would think he was a super, annoying prick.
He'd procured gigs like this: the Pop Prom at the Royal Albert. It was a dream come true! Theyd always heard of the Prom and wanted to be included. Brian made things happen. He was gear. After they all came back from their two week break--him to see Louise in America, John to France with Cyn, Ringo and Paul to Greece--they were going to record another album. That made two! Hard to believe that only a year ago they'd all wondered if they'd make it out of the bloody Cavern with ten shillings between them.
Brian was a bloody magician.
George strummed along while John and Paul sang, hamming it up to the crowd so he wouldn't become invisible in their heady presence. He'd perfected the art of shaking his hair like a mini mop atop his thick skull and smiling in a half-moon kind of way. He also liked to waggle and scrunch his dark brows. His mother Louise said it was from all the Buster Keaton movies she'd let him watch as a child. Keaton had strangely been her favorite actor, and all his intimations had stuck with little George. But it was more than that; it was the ability to stand out from blokes like John and Paul. He had his own pull! He did it his own way! Even Ringo had his bits to get looks from the crowd. But George had perfected the "sullen" silent act. More than anything, George knew that he had a "look" if you could call it that; the brooding look, and to play upon it was his own little genius. If you sent a stare under a set of dark, heavy brows you could unnerve even the most intimidating bloke in the crowd, funny thing was, it had an opposite effect and the girls all loved it. Throw in a crooked smile; you were more than halfway there. Even Buster didn't have that!
Brian had recently told him, "George, you are too good at playing a dark gypsy. I'd tell you to stop. but I myself think it's lovely to see."
And now, here they were, the jewel of the Cavern, crowds every day at lunch and in the evening, a record, several hit songs, and enough pocket change to buy a round of ale. And yet . . .
The song concluded, and George reached up quickly to swipe away a layer of sweat before it ruined his fringe, then he peered around the place. Not one of them understood.
That's what left him feeling so hollow at night after hitting the sheets, guitar slung up against the wall with silver moonlight illuminating its amber sheen.
No one knew. And most of all, he didn't know. There was a mystery to life which was both wonderful and debilitating and he wanted so much to understand what this pariah was that ate his insides out, day and night, but it was impossible to grasp. There had to be an answer somewhere, and he George Harrison wanted to be the one to find it, if only to save whatever there was left of his cotton candy soul.
Show over, the four of them bowed and ran offstage to waiting sodas and terry towels Brian handed to them with praise and smiles. George threw off his suit coat immediately, as did John. Then they hung the clothing up on hangers just as Brian had taught them to do.
"No, wait," Brian said, peeking his head in. "You still have a meet and greet with the fans."
"Bloody hell," John breathed, reaching for his suit again. "It's fucking summer. Do we really have to wear this shit all summer?" He shimmied his slacks back up bare legs to cover a set of tightie whities.
"Yes, John, you do." Brian nodded and then left. He'd seen them all naked a few times.
John threw George a look. George shrugged and also slid on his pants and jacket once more.
"They make you wear suits in prison too," George said. He and John were always equating things to the monarchy and prisons. School had been the worst prison of all, and suits had a tinge of that.
"Right you are," John said, sucking on a ciggie before heading out to meet the fans.
Meet ups at the Royal Albert happened outside the stage door within the shipping area where food trucks parked to deliver sammies and drinks. Visually, a complete and opposite effect from the rest of the venue. But at least there was a breeze.
Paul, who had remained in his suit, made a quick turn and followed them along with Ritchie. Paul began silently filling out one of many questionnaires from a fan.
"What is your favorite color?"
"Black."
"How tall are you?"
"Five foot eleven."
"What kind of girls do you like?"
"You."
It was Sunday, and as they stood out there in a nice realm of fresh sunlight, summer breeze on their necks, George heard a set of church bells tolling from the nearby Holy Trinity cathedral. He liked the sound. It had a cleansing, beautiful feel that seemed to lighten his body. Like he'd been admonished from all darkness.
Not everyone enjoyed the sound.
"Shuddup!" John yelled, shaking a fist at the bell towers. Then he turned and smiled at his circle of fans, and they all screamed. That was all it took lately to ensure a wild reception from their female personage: a smile, a growl, even a hiccup. More and more it seemed they could do almost anything and the girls would scream their bloody heads off. It was scandalous and titillating but also concerning as George had never thought himself the kind of lad to be taken in by false idolization. At least it came from girls though and somehow that lessened the importance, not that girls were lesser than boys when it came to opinions, music or otherwise; it just made more sense. George was able to compartmentalize the adoration in a sexual suitcase and not get too hung up on the idea that he was great or important in any way. The fact was, when George woke up each morning, he was still his mother and father's (a bus driver) son.
They all signed their names on autograph books, cards and scraps of paper the girls had provided, then Paul turned to them and secretly tapped at his wristwatch. Time to hit the road, he said with batting eyelashes.
Brian stepped forward and addressed the crowd. "Thank you all for being here and we hope to see you at our next event."
He motioned to a waiting car, and the boys pressed forward, a sectional of hands grabbing at them, to get inside the car. It was only Brian's wheels, a nice car but not a hired thing. They weren't that famous yet. Maybe not ever. Yes, they'd begun to pierce the tight walls of Europe, and yes, they'd appeared on Thank Your Lucky Stars, but other than that they were still unknown. Because the truth was, they hadn't conquered America yet, and you were no one until that feat was accomplished.
"America," John said, lighting up inside the car. "Promise me you'll bring back a memento."
"Doris Day's girdle," Paul quipped.
Brian got in the passenger's side and turned to grin at them. "You boys were fantastic. They told me you are invited back to next year's Prom."
"Great," John said, with an air that belayed not needing or wanting to do another Prom performance. He was already thinking bigger, better. George knew this.
The driver pulled into the road and took them back to where they'd all parked their own cars, except John who didn't drive. Eppy had arranged to take him straight back to his old flat that he'd leant to the newly married leader of the band. John had recently married his girlfriend Cynthia because she was secretly pregnant, or with child as his mother had commented when he'd brought the topic up.
"Did you know they were having sex?" his mother asked over tea.
"No, of course not."
"Oh, sure you didn't. And fairies are real and the sky is pink."
"It's pink sometimes, Mother," he said, smiling at her.
Back in the car, George looked at the newly married John and thought how strange it was that the wildest member of their entourage had gotten chained to a bird and would be a father. John saw him staring and shoved him away with a curse. "Ger off me!"
It was still John and Paul was still Paul and Ritchie was still just sad-eyed Ritchie. And he was just George. The string of thoughts comforted him.
They arrived at their destination.
"Have fun in the States," John called out to George. "Don't forget the memento or I'll kill ya!"
"Have fun in Paris," George replied as Brian's car pulled away.
Two weeks, that's what they'd been allotted. It didn't seem like enough time, but it was the longest stretch of vacation they'd been allowed since signing with Brian and NEMS which had led to a recording contract with George Martin and EMI.
The others left and George stood alone in Abbey Road by his own modest car. All of a sudden, he felt nervous. And excited. America? It was a true adventure, that. What if he got lost? What if some ruffians like Marlon Brandon knifed him in New York all for showing his huge, ratty teeth?
His sister Louise had been there a while though and said it'd be fine and had ensured him there was nothing to worry about. She'd take care of him. Anyway, he wasn't a coward. The youngest of the band, he'd seen far worse in the streets of Liverpool and Hamburg. He'd had his face bashed many times for nothing at all, and here he was, still standing.
He lit up a ciggie and decided right there to push away any more fear if it crept up. He felt called to America, fear or not. And he liked trying new things, to be a trailblazer for himself without the others to pitch in their doubts and nay saying.
With that, George got in and drove to his mother's old house in Speke where she fed him and his brother Peter a nice proper Scouse and a beautiful tart to see them off before their flight the next day.
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