When They Were Boys by Larry Kane

Author:Larry Kane [Kane, Larry]
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
ISBN: 9780762450954
Publisher: Running Press

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

THE PRINCE OF MATHEW STREET

“I remember ‘Pike the Mad Axman’ . . . curious eyeballs looking ready to pop out of the sockets. . . . Pike used to walk around with [a] meat cleaver and whack people out.”

—Tony Bramwell, on one of the violent “Teddy Boys”

“January 25, 1961. I needed a new band for the new club that was opening, the Casanova Club. So I picked the five Beatles. Yes, the original five. Not a bad choice, eh?”

—Sam Leach, the “Prince of Mathew Street”

THE GHOSTS OF JOHN AND GEORGE ARE PROBABLY SITTING ACROSS FROM HIM, HOLDING A RUM AND COKE—or in John’s case, a touch of Brandy Alexander—watching the Prince with great glee, and maybe a touch of empathetic laughter thrown in.

The Prince arranges his hair, still wavy with silver shine, and he smiles that toothy smile that made him a teen idol in those heart-gushing early days, when girls became young lovers and boys didn’t have to search far for undying affection.

He sits in the corner at the usual table at The Grapes, a small, cluttered, and charming bar, with a stream of live entertainment, located in the heart of Mathew Street, the quaint and sometimes grim-looking walkway that sits adjacent to the new Cavern, as well as the spot of the original Cavern, which was unceremoniously destroyed by the city fathers of Liverpool in the seventies. The Prince is there every Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, remembering the many afternoons he spent with the boys, drinking and talking about their favorite subjects: melodies and maidens, not necessarily in that order. His contemporary companions are a cold beer, a bag full of books, and the tourists in Liverpool, never far away and always eager to hear the legacy of his most unusual life. The Prince is a storyteller. He tells his stories with gracious panache, that stirring Liverpool drawl, the spectacular pauses, so touched by the Irish impact that remains so much a part of the fabric of England’s third-largest city.

Yet there were warnings about the veracity of these stories. Warnings are a way of life among the memoirists, the group of the living who claim a piece of the Beatles’ legend. In many cases, owning a chapter of the folklore surrounding the boys becomes more important than the accuracy of the story. There is joy in Liverpool, but the surviving storytellers warn that only their story is the true story. This author has experienced this more than once, but when it comes to the Prince, there are no warnings, just a heavy dose of affection, and sadness—affection for his dreamlike vision for the boys, sadness that he was preempted by another young dreamer, Brian Epstein.

“Remember his last name, just remember,” said a close friend of three of the Beatles.

I do remember. His name is Leach, Sam Leach, and although like many others he profits from his place in time and history, he doesn’t deserve the moniker of the last name. Not at all. Despite the fading memories

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