PAUL IS UNDEAD by ALAN GOLDSHER

Author:ALAN GOLDSHER
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: GALLERY BOOKS
Published: 2010-07-15T00:00:00+00:00

BRIAN EPSTEIN: The band’s first real US tour in the fall of ’64 was defined by one thing, and one thing only: screaming. The press played it off like it was fabulous, but really, it was horrific.

The lads didn’t mind the screaming in and of itself—for that matter, John and Paul seemed to get a certain thrill out of the whole thing, especially when a man sitting in the front row at the second Hollywood Bowl show yelled so intensely that blood gushed from his eyes, nose, and mouth and spurted all the way onto Ringo’s hi-hat—but it was difficult to hear what was happening onstage.

GEORGE HARRISON: Touring was a blur. Going from town to town, from city to city, from country to country without a minute to breathe was hard enough. But when you add Mick Jagger to the equation, well, talk about Mania.

RINGO STARR: We were in Chicago for a gig at the International Amphitheater, and after we finished up our sound check, Brian and the four of us went back to the limo, and there he is, Mick Jagger himself, waiting for us in the backseat, his massive lips fashioned into a puffy sneer, or maybe a smile—it was always hard to tell with him. No clue how he got past security. No clue how the limo driver didn’t notice him. It was Ninja-like behavior, and I couldn’t help being impressed and flattered that a fine singer such as Mick would go to all that trouble just to see us.

Mick picked up Eppy by his collar and said, “Brian, if it’s okay with you, I’d like to chat with my favorite Liverpudlians. I need to pick their brains … that is, before they pick mine.” A pretty good line for a bloke from Kent, I thought. Mick kicked open the door and threw Eppy out onto the concrete, then, in a dead-on Lennon voice, told the driver to take us to the William Green Homes.

John said, “What the fook are the William Green Homes?”

Mick said, “Never you mind, Johnny. Just sit back and enjoy the trip.” Nobody said a thing during the fifteen-minute ride to what turned out to be a low-income housing development parked right next to a big, empty field—if you could call it a field. Mick told the limo driver to piss off, that we’d find our own way back to the hotel—if we made it back to the hotel. While the driver sprinted away, Mick said, “Okay, lads, out.”

We stumbled out of the car. The sidewalk was cracked, and there was broken glass everywhere. George whispered to me, “Aren’t you gonna do something, Rings? Get invisible, mate. Save the day.”

I whispered, “You got it.” I might not have made Eighth Level, but I still had a few tricks up my sleeve. Right as I was about to blend into the scenery, a van screeched into the lot and ran over the escaping driver, then plowed smack into the limo.

And out jumped a Zombie.

ROD

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