Not What I Appear To Be

John Lennon couldn’t get a word right. From childhood, he inadvertently mastered the art of being misunderstood. As early as Mosspits Kindergarten, John was expelled for belligerence, and by the time he made his way to Quarrybank Grammar (his high school), John was – as he flippantly phrased it – “sus-pen-dooed.”


Sure, there were plenty of times, I’m certain, when John was impudent, in his own right. He could dish out satirical taunts with the best of them. However, I firmly believe that quite often his reputation preceded him and that the bad press John received wasn’t always really deserved.


Take, for example, the famous quote attributed to our Mr. Lennon:


“Ringo isn’t the best drummer in Liverpool. He isn’t even the best drummer in The Beatles.”


I’ve heard this insult attributed to John on radio shows, in speeches, and during panel discussions filled with scholars. But the truth of the matter is, John never said this! And Beatles Guru Mark Lewisohn agrees. A few years ago, in fact, Lewisohn set out to prove that this awful quote was never uttered by John, and he carefully traced the comment to comedian Jasper Carrot in 1983.[i] As Lewisohn astutely pointed out, this was never the sort of thing John Lennon would have said.


What, then, did the real John Lennon have to say about Ringo’s drumming? Well, in The Anthology,[ii] he states quite clearly, “Ringo’s a damn good drummer. He was always a good drummer. He’s not technically good, but I think Ringo’s drumming is underrated the same way Paul’s bass playing is underrated…I think Ringo and Paul stand up anywhere with any of the rock musicians!”


Sadly, so few people repeat that quote.


I’m sure John wasn’t surprised that he was given, erm, “credit” for petulant phrases. On the 1964 tour, this sort of thing happened rather regularly. Take this interview that occurred in Cincinnati where (according to many biographers!) John sniped at a reporter who suggested that The Beatles should be able to handle the fans without police support. Time and again, you’ll read that John sneered at the man and spat, “Well, maybe you could. You’re fatter than us!” But here is what really occurred, transcribed from the Cincinnati press conference.


Reporter 4: You four ought to be able to handle the crowds without all the police presence. Why don’t you just walk right through?

George: (Incensed) Well, y’ can’t go leapin’ into a crowd of 30,000, can you?

Paul: (Smoking and trying to over-talk George, who is clearly agitated) You can’t go up the middle, y’know.

George: They’d pull you apart y’ see! So, for everybody’s sake…

Reporter 4: You ought to be able to handle it…

George: (Browned off) Well, maybe you could because you’re fatter ’n us!

John says not a word and looks away.[iii]


Similarly, just a few minutes later – according to the “experts” – John fired another angry retort at the press. But here is the actual exchange…and it’s not John who’s annoyed by a reporter’s inane question.


Reporter 5: What excuse do you have for your collar-length hair?

John: (Shrugging) It just grows out of our heads…

Paul: (Still irritated by the last question) We don’t need an excuse. You need an excuse![iv]


The room, of course, broke into waves of laughter, but John sighed, knowing that by morning, the interview’s sharp retorts would be credited to him. Any sarcastic comment immediately became his territory. When he rang Mimi back in Liverpool, and she fussed about his “overt rudeness” to the press, John would try to tell her it had been George’s observation this time or Paul’s remark. But no one would believe him, not even his own aunt.


So, it’s no surprise that by the summer of 1966, the American press and DJs across the country over-reacted to a very complicated and in-depth observation that John made to Maureen Cleave in a lengthy interview.[v] That comment – condensed by Datebook magazine into an arrogant sound-bite – became “the last straw for Lennon.” A victim of erroneous and out-of-context citing, John was attacked ferociously and forced to apologize over and over and over and over for something he didn’t actually say as it was reported. Pieces of his conversation had been left out of his comment. The full truth had been omitted.


The problem is that once a public figure develops a reputation for being “a bad boy” (or girl), the image is difficult to shrug off. And once the press turns on you, they rarely reverse the trend.


Let me hasten to say that the journalists who traveled with The Beatles during “the long and winding” 1964 North American Tour, to a man (or woman), loved John. Larry Kane said that John was The Beatle with whom he developed the closest relationship. And, so did Ivor Davis.[vi] And. most assuredly, Art Schreiber. Helen Shapiro will gladly tell you that on her 1963 tour, John did more to help her and bolster her spirits than any of the other Beatles. He was her friend.


Which only goes to show that getting to know someone rather than accusing them from a distance is the best policy. An old Native American adage says this: “Never judge a man until you have walked two moons in his moccasins.” Translated, we find: “Never judge anyone until you have lived in his or her world for at least two months.” That’s a sound rule of thumb.


If only we could learn something important from the way John was treated by those who had no idea that he “was not what he appeared[ed] to be,” if only we could glean a truth from it…wouldn’t the world be a better place?


[i] “Who’s Sleeping in Groucho Marx’s Bed?” The London Times, 8 March 2013:

[ii] The Anthology, p. 81. Direct quote from John Lennon.

[iii] You can see this question being posed and answered here. Several sources including Miles, The Beatles Diary, Vol. 1, 162 and Badman, 119 blame John for this irritated line of patter. You can clearly see that John does not deliver the line. He says nothing. George is the one speaking.

[iv] Bracey, David. “What’s Future for Beatles?” Cincinnait Enquirer, 28 August 1964, found at: A brief transcript of this interview can be found in Badman’s The Beatles: Off the Record, 119. However, Badman credits John with the retort, “Well, it grows out of my head and John with “We don’t need an excuse. You need an excuse.”

[v] Cleave, Maureen, “How Does a Beatle Live?”

[vi] Davis, Ivor, The Beatles and Me on Tour, p. 83. Davis states, “I got to know and appreciate John the best.”

Jude Southerland Kessler is the author of the John Lennon Series:


Jude is represented by 910 Public Relations — @910PubRel on Twitter and 910 Public Relations on Facebook.


P.S. We Love You

By Jude Southerland Kessler

A note to Mark and Carol Lapidos on the advent of the 41st annual Fest for Beatles Fans


My brilliant mother (the oh-so-quotable Maxine Southerland) used to warn me, “Jude, the road to hell is paved with good intentions.” She believed that “Plans” (with a capital P) were useless unless one actually acted upon them. Worse than useless – a waste of time!


American author, Henry David Thoreau, strongly agreed, although – unfortunately for him – he never met Mrs. Maxine. Thoreau wrote, “If you have built your castles in the air…that is where they should be! Now, put the foundations under them!” In other words, dream…but then do.


The Beatles were living examples of that maxim. They were boys who dreamed big and then worked their ever-lovin’ guts out to make those far-flung dreams reality. They were tireless in their pursuit of “the toppermost of the poppermost,” working 10-12 hours a day without complaining to achieve their goal.


And it is the same with Mark and Carol Lapidos, the creators and directors of The Fest for Beatles Fans. Many of you have been to multiple fests without ever meeting Mark and Carol. You may have seen them handing out bracelets or fighting fires or greeting you warmly without even knowing whom you were addressing. They never make The Fest about them. In fact, they intentionally fade into the background to make sure that those three magical days in New Jersey (in March) and in Chicago (in August) are all about The Beatles.


But for 41 years now, this very happily married couple (a feat in itself in our age) and their two creative daughters, Michelle Joni and Jessica, have given their lives to the concept Mark dreamed up four decades ago. They have devoted themselves utterly to The Fest for Beatles Fans.


Forty-three years ago, Mark Lapidos had a dream. And without shying away or procrastinating or letting “life happen with its other plans,” Mark found a way to meet with John Lennon in New York City and ask John for his endorsement of this imagined festival celebrating the Fab Four. Mark tells this truly goose-bumpy story at the Fest for all to hear, so I won’t “spoil the party” by divulging the details. But suffice it to say, out of that courageous visit to John Lennon, the Fest for Beatles fans was born.


To my way of thinking, getting in to see John Lennon was coup enough. I struggle to get my interviews. It is thrilling to me to even visit with people who were part of The Beatles’ entourage! Give me a chauffeur, a Cavern Club doorman, a traveling journalist on one of The Beatles’ tours, and I’m in seventh heaven! But, Mark Lapidos took matters all the way to the top…straight to the man who conceived The Beatles, hand-picked his group, and kept them together in good times and in bad. Mark went to John Winston Lennon. To me, that is remarkable.


But Mr. L(apidos) did much, much more. He began planning the Fest, partnering with his fiancé and later, wife, to work long hours “eight days a week” to book hotels, schedule conference rooms, supply food and drink, check on parking conditions, secure noted speakers, book Beatles notables, haul merchandise to Fest sites, set up decorations, make certain that electrical and AV equipment was working, and hire an extensive staff of trusted, responsible, impressive Fest employees to work for months insuring that each event was a roaring success. And hey, I’m only touching on the proverbial tip of the iceberg! There is soooooo much more to carrying off a mammoth event such as this. So much more.


And listen, the thing is…Mark and Carol and Jessica and Michelle didn’t just do this for a year or five or ten. They made it happen (extremely well) year after year after year through times when babies were born, when parents passed away, when the economy was awful, when hotels fell into disrepair and new venues had to be sought, when equipment failed, when storms rocked the area, when they were happy, and when they were sad. They endured for 41 years, no matter what.


The Lapidos family has been giving Beatles fans “a home away from home” and a place to reunite for 41 years. Theirs isn’t a story of “shoulda, woulda, coulda.” Theirs is the story of “been there, DONE THAT!” But they don’t say that in a jaded, bored way. Nope, 41-years-in, they are still uber-excited to present the Fest to you, thrilled to say “a splendid time is guaranteed for all,” and “happy just to dance with you.” Their hearts are still 100% invested in the hands-on running of this wonderful festival. They care.


So, I want you to see their photo (below, with Joey Molland, Albert Lee, and Mark Hudson)…and I’m asking each of you to seek them out at the Hyatt Regency O’Hare in Chicago, Aug. 11-13 and thank them. I’m asking you, if you’d be so kind, to simply shake their hands or give them a hug and tell them from the heart how much you appreciate what they’ve given us all for lo these many years. I don’t think a simple “thank you” is out of order, do you?


And…ahem!!!!…if I were Paul McCartney or Ringo Starr, I would make it a point to show up one year and thank them as well…thank them for a lifetime of “putting the foundations under” a long-ago dream that has kept Beatles fans united, excited, and informed.


Mark and Carol, the Beatles authors of your Fests salute you! We are so proud to be associated with you. To us (although you are our age and younger, in many cases, than we are) you are our parents. You make us into family, and we love you! Thank you from our Beatle-y hearts.

Jude Southerland Kessler is the author of the John Lennon Series:


Jude is represented by 910 Public Relations — @910PubRel on Twitter and 910 Public Relations on Facebook.


There is No Try

It’s a film classic: the moment that Yoda advises young Luke Skywalker, “Do or do not. There is no try.”


It’s truly the motto that John Lennon lived by. He was completely and utterly committed to “the toppermost of the poppermost,” in a never-say-die way that permitted no room for failure. John was determined.


In fact, after The Beatles returned from Hamburg in December of 1960, Paul’s father convinced him to return to school and complete his teacher-training. George took a job as an electrician’s mate, and Pete began playing gigs with various groups around Liverpool with whom he was friendly. For The Beatles, it was almost the end.


But Johnny Lennon – his eyes on the prize – went door-to -door, dragging his band members back to their raison d’etre. “What’re y’doin’???” he exhorted them. “Y’can’t get a fuggin’ job! There’s no time for it! We’re goin’ to be bigger’n Elvis! We’re goin’ to the toppermost of the fuggin’ poppermost!” And so, they surrendered: dropped out of school, gave up the job, zeroed in on one band: pledged their allegiance. It was a decision to do, not to try.


Soooo…each year for the last 12 years, I’ve written to you, urging you to come to The Fest for Beatles Fans. And each year, you read this familiar blog (in its many forms) and say, “Man, I gotta do that! Next year I totally am gonna be there…for sure.” And then year becomes year, and you only try. You never do.


And you know what? You are missing one of the happiest, brightest moments in any Beatles fan’s life. You are relinquishing some of the most priceless, unforgettable events a fan could experience…such as:


Chatting face-to-face with Ringo’s producer and friend, Mark Hudson, and then watching him rock the stage on Saturday night, performing “Working Class Hero” in a mad, mad, mad, mad way that would make our John so proud!


Hearing noted Beatles author Bruce Spizer talk at noon on Saturday about Sgt. Pepper and its impact not only on the Sixties, but also on the lives of thousands (millions?) today.


Dancing with your family (children are oh-so-welcome!!!!) on Friday night to the magnificent sounds of the live band, “Liverpool.”


Shopping in the vast marketplace where gorgeous Beatles jewelry, clothing, T-shirts, room furnishings, and rare collectibles are displayed here, there, and everywhere. Talking with distinguished authors such as Dr. Ken Womack, Lanea Stagg, Dr. Kit O’Toole, Vivek Tiwary, Aaron Krerowicz, Robert Rodriguez, Jorie Gracen, and Simon Weitzman.


Being present for the showing of author David Bedford’s new film, Looking for Lennon…sitting back and enjoying this magnificent work up close and personal!


Meeting Ringo’s musical director, Mark Rivera! Meeting John Lennon’s immigration attorney, Leon Wildes! Good grief! Enough said, right???? That’s huge!


Taking part in the fun-filled Beatles Trivia contest led by noted Beatles writers Al Sussman and Tom Frangione. (You’ll also want to get a copy of Al’s book!)


Sitting on the floor or in the folding chairs under the stairs and singing along (or playing along on your guitar, tambourine, uke, or whatever) as the “pop-up bands” stay up all night long, performing every Beatles song ever written…and doing it beautifully, I might add.


Hearing Laurence Juber, Denny Laine, Denny Seiwell, and Steve Holley bring Wings back to life before your very eyes on the Saturday night and Sunday night stages! A rare reunion indeed!


Enjoying a lively (and I do mean lively) interview with comedian Neil Innes of The Ruttles! OMGosh!


Taking a virtual tour of Liverpool to rare places “Off the Beatle-n Path” with me (Jude Southerland Kessler, as it were) on Saturday morning at 11 a.m. You’ll see historical spots in The Beatles’ career that few have ever glimpsed!


Blinking back a tear or two as you view Wally, Victoria, and Deco’s stunning tribute to Brian Epstein!


Attending the lively Women Historians’ Panel with Beatles experts Susan Ryan, Sara Schmidt, Allison Boron, Erika White, Kit O’Toole, Tina Kukula, Karen Duchaj, and Kathryn Cox as they discuss “The Sixth Beatle” (on Saturday) and “The Beatles’ Activism” (on Sunday).


Stopping by the Marketplace to try on and place your order for authentic Beatles suits, jackets, and other clothing hand-tailored by Russ Lease!


Strolling through the impressive art gallery of Eric Cash…and selecting a lovely and valuable piece to adopt for your very own.


Spending Sunday afternoon rockin’ out to the fab-tastic sound of The Weeklings!


Living a moment in history with George Harrison’s sister, Louise Harrison.


Listening and taking part in Wally Podrazik’s well-organized, insightful panel discussions with some of the most respected Beatles experts in the world: Robert Rodriguez, Chuck Gunderson, Bruce Spizer, Al Sussman, and many others.


Talking with Ringo’s official photographer, Rob Shanahan, as you peruse his gallery of rare, magnificent photos.


Being “there” for the first appearances of many new faces on The Beatles scene including poet Terri Whitney, author Greg Sterlace, and Chicago Beatles Fan Club organizer Marti Edwards.


And that is just a smidgen of the magic that unfolds when The Fest shines on!


If you’re going to say, “Okay, sure, I’ll try to be there,” don’t. Stop. DO OR DO NOT. THERE IS NO TRY. In John Lennon fashion, I’m knocking on your door. I am begging you to halt that work-a-day electrician’s mate job (at least for the weekend) and set your sights on something better.


I’m pleading with you to drop that mundane class (for three days only!) and opt for pure joy. I am asking you to give yourself the gift of a lifetime…a gift of memories and friendships to take home with you…smiles, sighs, songs, and stories. The Fest for Beatles Fans is sincerely the “toppermost of the poppermost.” Be there…DO!

Jude Southerland Kessler is the author of the John Lennon Series:


Jude is represented by 910 Public Relations — @910PubRel on Twitter and 910 Public Relations on Facebook.


An Injured Poem?

“A song is an injured poem

Which leans on music for its strength.”



Or worded in plain-speak: “Songs are mostly appreciated based on the accompanying music.”[1]


This is the standard English teachers’ rule to which The Beatles hold myriad exceptions. In fact, literally hundreds of lines from Beatles’ tunes – throughout the span of their career – stand alone as poignant, memorable poetry.


Take for example, the haunting warning, “One day, you’ll look to see I’m gone. But tomorrow many rain, so…I’ll follow the sun.” Poetry! Tune, or no tune to back it up.


Or consider:


“It’s only love and that is all.

Why should I feel the way I do?

It’s only love…and that is all.

But it’s so hard – loving you.”


Read that verse aloud, without the music, and what you will find is the complete helplessness of the writer – the frustration and pain of loss – a loss made even more evident in the tuneless void. Spoken without the magical music behind the words, there is nothing to soften the blow. What you discover is a lover desperately trying to shrug off the intensity of his feelings and forebodings – and failing miserably. Utterly. You witness a very private moment and an unforgettable one. And that, my friend, is poetry.


The Beatles were, indeed, poets whose music only enhanced the strength of their compositions. Their lyrics are works of art, and “in their own write,” they succeed.


My favorite line from the immense Beatles catalog is, surprisingly, not a Lennon line. But I like to think that Paul was addressing his words to John – that he was reminding his old friend of the lifelong connection the two of them shared, despite the difficulties they were encountering in the moment. That image, in itself, injects the words with raw emotion. But the couplet also has a second level of meaning as my husband, Rande, and I prepare to celebrate our 40th Wedding Anniversary on 23 June.


You and I have memories

Longer than the road that stretches out ahead.


Sad, but true, I think. Although (who knows?) we may be lucky. My parents celebrated 72 years together. Dare we hope for 80? Perhaps. Though reality nudges me to admit that Paul’s affectionate and haunting line is probably closer to the truth.


The first time I heard these words, I was sitting in the lobby of the Gibson Guitar Factory in Memphis, Tennessee, waiting to take the tour. The invisible powers-that-be behind the scenes were playing The Beatles – as it should be – and the quiet group listened. I had heard “Two of Us” countless times, I’m sure. But I’d never really absorbed the words until they filtered into that immense room…until the poetry swirled over and around the atrium, washing every patron in deep emotion. Instantly, my eyes filled with tears…for my parents who were in their early 90’s and sitting with us that afternoon, for my husband and me – and yes, for Paul and John. It was a tender moment.


Beatlesongs. So many of the lyrics could stand alone without any music to lean on – mature, complete in themselves, needing nothing more. But why should they stand alone? When the poetry inherent in “In My Life” can be accompanied by the perfect melody, why not have the best of both worlds? Why not enjoy the whole package? We can be selfish, Beatles fans! We are blessed.


But if you had to pare down their songs to the lyrics alone…pare them down to the poetry – the most memorable words – which lines have touched your heart the most? Which lines from a song by John, Paul, George, or Ringo have stayed with you throughout the years? And why?


Please take a moment and share your thoughts with us here at The Fest…and you could win a collector’s tin of Beatles coasters! Just respond in our Comments section and in two weeks, we’ll draw a winner from the responses we receive. We truly love hearing from you, and we hope you enjoy taking a moment from the hectic, work-a-day world to revel in the music and poetry of The Fab Four.


Let’s talk Beatles. Let’s talk poetry.


Jude Southerland Kessler is the author of the John Lennon Series:


Jude is represented by 910 Public Relations — @910PubRel on Twitter and 910 Public Relations on Facebook.


Act, Naturally!

I have a serious confession to make: I prefer Help! to A Hard Day’s Night.


Yes, yes, I know. A Hard Day’s Night won two Academy Awards. It’s the artsier of the two films, capturing in black-and-white the vivid symbolism of Beatlemania’s captive, life-in-a-box existence. In close-quartered scenes (a railroad car, a tiny backstage Green Room, a darkened hallway) the film emphasizes the asphyxia of Beatlemania. I get it.


But Help! – that droll, clever, tongue-in-cheek James Bond spoof – has been (almost as much as Beatles music) the backdrop of my life. My husband, Rande, and I speak in Help!-ese.


When Rande begins some involved scientific or engineering-related explanation, I peer at him and say, “I believe you. Thousands wouldn’t.” And, when I flub something up – as I am wont to do – my husband drones, “Jeweler, you failed!”  I can’t count the times when one or the other of us has held up a hand and murmured, “Say no more.” Or the happy times when in a brief moment of victory, we’ve shouted, “With this I can (dare I say it?!) rule the world!”


Every year since 1965 on my birthday (much harder to accomplish before the advent of Beta, VHS, and then later DVDs) I have managed somehow to watch Help! and wolf down a Mexican TV dinner. It’s a cherished teen tradition I won’t let go. And every single bike ride we’ve undertaken in our married life has begun with in a circular loop or two while we chanted: “A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do” and argued about whether or not we should, in fact, go to the Temple. Help! is our thing.


However, all of this being said, I love A Hard Day’s Night, Yellow Submarine, Magical Mystery Tour, and Let it Be. They have had no small airplay around our home. The Beatles’ movies are endlessly watchable and quotable.


Brian Epstein was a marketing genius. He knew that his boys were supremely talented composers/lyricists/musicians. But, he also knew that they were equally adroit performers: natural comedians. The Beatles drew, in part, on the satiri-comical nature of Scousers. Liverpudlians are reared in an atmosphere they refer to as “mickey-takin’” (smarting off to anyone and everyone at will). And to ice that pound-you cake, Scousers cut their teeth on the vaudevillian Music Hall tradition so well represented by Arthur Askey and “The Cheeky Chappie,” Max Miller. They grew up with swift, witty retorts.

Brian knew that the boys’ penchant for repartée would woo audiences, and screenwriter Alun Owen was Scouse enough to capture that repartée authentically and wise enough to let the boys (especially John) improvise as often as they wanted to improvise. Therefore, The Beatles’ films blossomed with brilliant banter.


Honestly, the question, “Which film is the best Beatles’ film?” has no “right” answer. The answer is individual. Flower Children of the late 1960s adore Magical Mystery Tour. Stark realists lean toward the all-too truthful scenes of Let It Be. And even though they don’t actually star in Yellow Submarine, the entire nature of the film is inspired by John, Paul, George, and Ringo, so it must be included as well. Indeed, many Second Gen fans were reared on the “I’ve got a hole in m’pocket” script. The colourful cartoon was their introduction to the Fab Four. So….


Which Beatles “fil-um” (as Liverpudlians pronounce it) and which scene in that film is your all-time fav? Is it John Lennon’s hallway bit in A Hard Day’s Night? (“She looks more like him than I do!”) Is it the press conference clip? (“No, actually we’re just good friends.”) Which scene in which Beatles movie do you most cherish?


Just as you did last week, please post at the end of this blog, and let’s share a conversation with one another. Let’s remember the good times, inspiring moments, and memories to which we still cling. Shoot a quick comment our way, and in 2 weeks, we’ll have a random drawing from all of those who posted…and we’ll award a Beatles-related film as the prize.


One lucky person will receive a copy of Good Ol’ Freda, the beloved story of Freda Kelly who served as the head of The Beatles Fan Club and worked in the Liverpool NEMS for 12 years with “Mr. Brian.” It’s a great, great movie – a true inspiration for the whole family. You’ll adore it.


Remember, there are no “correct answers” to these two questions. We’d just love to chat together and enjoy the discussion. In the words of British author, E. M. Forrester, “ONLY CONNECT.”


We’re waiting to hear from you.

Jude Southerland Kessler is the author of the John Lennon Series:


Jude is represented by 910 Public Relations — @910PubRel on Twitter and 910 Public Relations on Facebook.


Tell Me What You See

Jude talks about her #1 favorite moment in Beatles history…what was yours? Tell us YOUR fav Fab moment! We want to hear from you! We’ll draw a name from all responses to win a Beatles gift package. Read on…


I’ve always longed for a magic time machine. I have no desire at all to whisk away to the future (where I’ll have even more wrinkles than I presently have! Geez!). No, my dream of dreams is to go to the past…to land squarely inside The Cavern Club on Thursday, 5 April 1962 just as the evening set is about to get started:


What a night! Freda’s here. She’s standing in her usual lunchtime spot just under the first arch. It’s rare for her to be here of an evening, but this is a special night. One-of-a-kind.


You see, Brian has – without making a big deal of it – decided to make this night a sort of debutante’s
“coming out” party. With his usual command of the dramatic, he’s planned a never-to-be-forgotten set.


The posters call it “The Beatles: For Their Fans,” and all week long, compère Bob Wooler has proclaimed it as “a singular soiree for the beauteous Beatlettes ’n all ’n sundry Beatles devotees.” The show’s to be one-of-a-kind: during the first set, John, Paul, George, and Pete Best are to bound out from the Green Room in their traditional, tight leathers and to offer up random, uncensored raucous favorites that’ll shake “the Cavern dandruff” from the ceiling and set the room on fire.


Then, after a short break, the lads are to emerge again, this time wearing (for the first time ever in The Cavern) their new, exquisite Beno Dorn suits. This set is to be guided by a strict playlist, good manners, and deep bows from the waist. Brian, you see, is introducing loyal fans to the newly re-engineered Fab Four – the group that will soon leave Liverpool behind and step onto the world stage.


I would give almost anything to experience that night…to feel the passion and energy in the room when the boys opened the first set with “Some Other Guy” and closed with “Twist and Shout.” I’d love to see John snarl at the girls calling Paul’s name and see Paul’s puckered brow when John made the front three rows swoon. I’d love to hear the inside jokes and perspire in the heat (some of it, at least, from the temperature in the underground room). And as an historian, I feel the need to experience the dead hush that raced across the floor when the suited Beatles emerged, full-blown in their finery – and to understand the sobs, when the Liverpool girls who had known the boys all too well realized that they were losing them.


5 April 1962 touched every end of the emotional spectrum. It was the happiest night ever in the Cavern. And it was the most tragic. Of all of the moments in Beatles history that preceded this night or followed after, to me, this was the most important. On that one evening, the wacks from Liverpool (through their own tacit agreement with Brian Epstein) became men of the world. They made the conscious choice to say a fond and loving “good-bye” to their dearest ones Merseyside and then, to walk away.


That’s my “go-to moment.” That’s the Beatles memory I’d most love to relive. What’s yours?


If you could wander back in time and experience one Beatles event, what would it be? Share your story; email us. Tell us where you’d like to go and why. And from the entries we receive, we’ll send one winner (drawn at random) a gift pack including a signed and dated copy of Shoulda Been There (Vol. 1 in The John Lennon Series), a signed and dated “Doors of Liverpool” art poster, and a copy of Recipe Records: A Culinary Tribute to The Beatles.


To add some more fun to this blog, here’s a chapter from my new book, Shivering Inside

5 April 1962

The Cavern Club



Music drifted in from the vaulted room – Bob Wooler was indeed testing the platters he’d spin: finding the right crescendo of music, the perfect blend of tension and anticipation. Wooler played one hit after another, listening.  


For the moment, The Cavern was hollow – echoing sound. It was a cool sepulcher waiting to be filled, a gaping hole in the ground, yawning for bodies to make it viable.


 “Evenin’ Beatles.” Neil scuffed in, his arms loaded with four large zip bags, each neatly monogrammed with the Beno Dorn insignia. “Suits here!” he said. He hung the elegant covers on the tiny metal rolling rack they called a “wardrobe.” “Though I must say,” he smirked, “you three look quite smashin’ in that fab gear! I almost recognize you, y’know.”


“’Ullo, everyone.” Pete strolled in, his Bobby Darin coif curled to perfection. “Have y’seen the queue out there? Subzero climes, but the line’s well out into Stanley anyway.”


“And why not?” Neil unzipped the garment bags and fluffed each suit individually. “It’s yer goin’ away bash, yer swan song – the last hurrah before Hamburg, isn’t it?”


 George pointed to the large poster Bob had hung on the band room wall. It was a photograph of the four of them staring haughtily, almost disdainfully into the camera. Leather collars upturned, guitars slung across their shoulders or resting on their knees, they looked dark and dangerous. It was the same shot Bill Harry had chosen for the December issue of Mersey Beat. It was The Beatles as they had once been, before Brian Epstein.


 “The Beatles for Their Fans,” George read the poster caption aloud, “or An Evening with John, Paul, George (always third) and Pete. Sponsored by The Beatles Fan Club. The Cavern Club, Mathew Street, 5 April 1962, 7:30 p.m. Free photograph to all ticket holders.”


 “Oh,” John slipped his boots on. “I was wonderin’ what we were doin’ here.”


“Say…any lookers out there, in the queue?” Paul asked Pete.


“Said the free man,” John intoned. Paul had just broken it off with his long-time ‘gerl’ and Cynthia’s chum, Dot Rhone. Now the game was afoot.


“There’s a coupla o’ not-so-bads,” Pete grinned. “What’re y’after exactly?”


“Dunno,” Paul winked and clicked his cheek twice. “I’m footloose and fancy free. The wind’s at me back, mate!”


“Just where Eppy’d like to be,” John sneered.


“Gerroff, John!” Pete scowled. “Brian’s the perfect gentleman! I mean, all right, yeah, he propositioned me the once, but when I politely declined, he never brought it up, ever again.”


John smirked with delight. “There’s so many innuendos in that statement, I wouldn’t know where to begin!”


“I’m lockin’ ya in, lads!” Bob Wooler popped his head inside the tiny room. “Paddy’s openin’ the doors in five. They’ll be creepin’ and crawlin’ down, all those creatures of the cloister. They’ll be clawin’ at ya, if I don’t bar the way.” He stopped and smiled. “By the by…you look smashin’, one and all! I’d forgotten how workin’ class you four can be, when you really put yer minds to it.”


“Don’t go soft on us, Da,” John spat.


“You know, Johnny boy,” Bob tossed back, “me heart’ll be broken these next seven weeks with you so far away. I don’t know how I’ll manage, actually.”


“Cold winds may blow o’er the icy sea,” Paul crooned, “but we’ll take with we the warmth of thee…”


They laughed, while Wooler grinned and saluted before closing the battered, metal door.


“Seven weeks in Hamburg!” George’s eyes sparkled.


“Yeah, Hamburg…the place for us!” Paul was just as elated. He tossed his hair, then brushed his shoulder with a flannel guitar cloth.


“Astrid ’n Stu’ll be there to meet us…waitin’ for The Beatles in that little, grey Beetle of hers.” John’s tone changed at the very mention of his friends. “I had a post from her today.”


 “Right,” George swallowed, sensing bad news. “And uh…how is Stu this week, eh?”


“Not great.” But before John could wander down the path of anxiety, Paul steered the conversation back to anything that could spark pre-show confidence.


“Mersey Beat, y’know, just published this article about the fact that we’ve written ‘at least seventy original tunes’! Seventy!” He rallied them. “Can you believe it?”


 “Even George Martin ’n Parlophone should be impressed with information of that ilk!” George agreed.


“Eppy’s already posted him the article,” Paul nodded. “Sent it out first thing this mornin’.”


“Ah, post haste,” John punned weakly, his humour now forced.


“Did y’see in that same issue,” Pete interjected, “Virginia’s story that Ringo’s turned ’round and is leavin’ The Hurricanes…after all these years?”


“Really?” Paul and George snapped their heads around.


 “Right,” Pete shrugged, “accordin’ to her, Ring’s defectin’ to Derry and the Seniors.”


“Thasso?” George’s eyes were bright.


Suddenly, from the other side of the door the sound of feet pounding down stairs, voices chatting and laughing, and wooden chairs grating across concrete inundated them. Yells, coughs, whoops, insults – the sound of people being people grew and increased and swelled to noise. Just on the other side of the thin metal barrier that divided the boys from The Cavern were the punters – the fans, the Beatlettes, the believers, the horde of young men and women who had over and over again traipsed down thirteen potholed stairs to the murky, underground club.


 Tonight they had gathered to say goodbye. They’d come to wish The Beatles well and to send them off reluctantly to Hamburg’s Star- Club. They’d come to celebrate their lads’ success and to mourn over the forty-nine barren days to come.


The door opened a tad, and Brian inched in. “Showtime, boys,” he said quietly. “And it’s a packed house, mind you. Not an inch to spare. In fact, I’m not sure how you’ll navigate to the stage! Your fans, every one of them, have come out for you, as it were – sending back messages of good luck, Godspeed, ‘good on yer lads,’ or ‘play one for Vi’…that sort of thing.” He was talking in circles; John suspected pep pills. It had been Brian’s trend of late. “One girl in particular – Bernadette Farrell, I believe – said her brother has a camera, and he’ll be in the second row. She said to smile at him, if you don’t mind.”


“Well, I do mind,” John sniffed. “I make it a rule never to smile towards the second row.” Then he jammed his tongue behind his lower lip and crossed his eyes. “How’s that fer a second row grin, Eppy?” he employed his old man’s voice.


But the William Tell Overture drowned out any response, and the boys stood up to stretch.


“Welcome to The Cavern! The Best of Cellars!” Bob Wooler’s melodic tones filled the low-slung room and bounced off the rough stone walls. “And what an evenin’ you have in store for you, Cavern Dwellers! What a night to remember!” The crowd rumbled and moved. “Right on the brink of another conquerin’ tour of Hamburg…” There were boos from the girls who would miss them most. “On the eve of their departure for seven long weeks…” More boos and derogatory whistles. “I give you the latest and greatest recordin’ stars in all of Mother England! The stars of radio as well! Your hometown lads!” He paused and let the music play. “The Beeeeeeatles!”


When the band room door smashed open and crashed into the wall behind it, the screams began. And when the Liverpool boys – decked from head to toe in skintight leathers – forced their way into the jampacked room, the swell shook the street above. Reverberating screams rent the Liverpool night. The North shuddered, goose-fleshed.


Brian Farrell raised his new Kodak above his head, above the arms reaching and clawing for the boys, and he snapped the first frame. Seventeen shots left…all he had. But Farrell was determined to capture this night forever.  


When the bulb didn’t flash, he lowered the camera and removed the fat, squatty bulb. Farrell licked the metal connector and then jammed the bulb back into its socket again. With a second try, he attempted to capture the lads taking their places on the stage, hoisting their famous guitars and waving to the crowd. He tried to save the smiles and the shine in their eyes as The Beatles laughed and danced about…but the flash still failed.


“Good evenin’, everyone!” Paul shouted into the primitive microphone. A screech of feedback answered him.


“’Ullo, boys ’n girls!” John rasped, geriatrically.


Pete took his seat on the rostrum and picked up his drum sticks. George gave a rippled finger wave and shy grin. More screams.


And without further ado, The Fabulous Beatles ripped into “Some Other Guy.” They tore through the song like the Liverpool gales that kept alleyways pristine but nooks and crannies packed with leaves and debris.


From the corner of the room, Epstein watched and nodded. Even he could see a difference tonight – could see that the boys before him had reclaimed the magic of their early years. In the transformation to sedate, refined performers, The Beatles had supplanted professionalism for primal appeal, and something exciting had been relinquished.  


But Brian stood firm. He felt the trade, a necessary barter.


“Next up,” Paul almost kissed the microphone, “is a little number…”


“Nah, I left her at home,” John deadpanned. The girls bit their fingers and squealed madly.


“Next up,” Paul tried again, “is a little number by Carl Perkins.  It’s called ‘Sure to Fall.’ This one’s a favourite of ours, and it goes somethin’ like this…”


The affectionate, folk-songy, bit of close harmony was a crowd pleaser. The Cavern Dwellers sang along – holding hands, swaying to the music – some closing their eyes and drinking in the moment.


Brian Farrell leaned over and shouted to his sister, Bernadette. He pointed to his camera face, miming that he needed a new flashbulb. But when she finally got the message, Bernadette scowled and mouthed, “Wait, yew!” – forcing Brian to grab his sister’s purse and go fishing for himself.


“So hold me tight, let tonight be the night,” Paul crooned. “Darlin’, don’t ever let me go.”  


John winked at long-time fan, Val Davies, and she winked right back, her hands clasped under her chin in singular adoration. John pulled a face, and Val giggled. “Lovin’ you is the natural thing to do,” John harmonized with Paul.  


And Val sang with them from her chair, “I want you for the rest of my life!”


On it went. George delivered “Do You Want to Know a Secret?” from the back of his throat, his tongue thick with Scouse.  John gave them “Bad Boy,” “Youngblood,” and the edgy, “Baby, It’s You.” But when Pete did “Matchbox,” the punters began to dance. There were arms and legs everywhere. The room gyrated and wiggled. It was a room kinetic.


Plops of moisture began dripping from the ceiling. Brian Farrell covered his camera with a cupped hand and cradled the Kodak close to his chest. The room was raining perspiration.


“Exactly why we’re headed for the better clubs!” Brian Epstein puckered his brow and shouted to Alistair Taylor beside him. Alistair nodded agreement, shielding himself with the latest copy of Mersey Beat. But as Taylor watched George Harrison do his little “three-steps-up, three-steps-back dance-walk boogie,” Alistair wondered if Brian’s grand plan for the group would succeed in the long run.


 The Beatles were clearly Liverpudlian. They were rowdy, unruly, “mickey-talkin’ miscreants,” as Bob Wooler always referred to them. Moreover, they were umbilically joined to the Scousers surrounding them tonight. Would Germany embrace them as warmly? Would the far-away-and-someday America love the lads as fervently as this lot clearly did?


“Play ‘Soldier of Love,’ pleeeeeese, Johnny!” a girl whined, seductively.


“Play, ‘Searchin’,’ Paul!” called another.


These fans knew The Beatles as well as the boys knew themselves. They had grown together, rooted in one close vessel.


“Next set…all right, luv?” Paul took a seat on one corner of the stage. He was flexing Brian’s rules tonight, and he knew it. They all were.  


But it was only the once. A night that would never come again.


Brian Farrell snapped the shot, and this time the flash worked. It pop-sizzled, catching Paul in the moment. A mad scramble with slippery hands to switch bulbs, and Farrell caught John in a soft-shoe, his arms wind-milling everywhere.  


Success! Farrell cheered. Fourteen shots to go.


When the last of the set concluded and the boys tumbled to the band room under a barrage of cheers, Bernadette plowed through her purse for her brother’s other bulbs. “Here! Keep ’em yer bleedin’self!” she shoved them in his direction. “I’m not yer nursie, am I?”


“Aw, c’mon!” the boy tried to protest. But Bernadette held up a hand and prissed away to the unforgivably gritty ladies’ loo.


“Hmmpf! She’s gorra a cob on!” Brian grumbled. But as brothers will, he shrugged it off.




Break time at The Cavern was almost unbearable. Without the lads to distract them, the punters noticedthe body odor a la antiseptic. They noticed the suffocating heat, weeping walls, and low ceilings. The claustrophobic ones fought their way upstairs, only to subject their sodden shirts to Mathew’s biting chill. But most – afraid to lose their vantage points, stayed below – their lips sucking in putrid air.


Backstage, John ripped off the sweat-soaked polo and tossed it to the floor. His leather jacket was already crumpled at his feet.


“It felt fuggin’ great to be us for a change, didn’t it?” he crowed, his funk over Stu forgotten momentarily.


“Yeah, it wasn’t half bad, y’know,” George said euphorically. “It almost made me forget how tired and rundown I’ve been lately.”  


Both John and Paul snapped their heads around in the boy’s direction.  


“We’ve a trip in one week, son!” John threatened. “One week!”


“Right,” Paul mandated, wiping his arms before slipping into his new dress shirt and suit. “No comin’ down with anythin’ this late in the game!”


“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine, I’m fine,” George reassured them. “I’m fine!” he shouted.  


“Make it so,” John commanded, and the leather kecks were torn away, discarded.


Paul took his new, thin-lapelled jacket from the hanger and wriggled into it while John held his arms out like a scarecrow, struggling to line-dry in the watered air.  


“Ready, then?” Brian’s head popped in at the door. But he could see they weren’t. Only Paul was partially dressed.


“In three…or four,” George wrangled with the inner button on the mohair slacks. “They’re awfully itchy – these kecks.” He made a face.  


“They’re excellent quality,” Brian insisted.


“And itchy,” George said again.


“I’m ready.” Pete buttoned his suit coat and took a deep breath.


“Hey Pete, remember the tempo on ‘’Til There was You,’ right?” Paul slipped into his dress boots. “It’s not just the ticky, ticky, ticky, yeah?”


“Y’hearin’ a fluctuation that’s not there, McCartney.” Pete handed John his shirt. “Y’er over- meticulous, aren’t you?”


“Just keep in mind how I showed you to do it, all right?” Paul ignored the rebuttal.


“Get knotted.” Pete looked away.


“Let’s go, boys!” Brian tapped the doorframe twice. “It’s been remarkable thus far! Keep it up.” He vanished, and the theme music began again.



“Single entrance,” John reminded them, his trousers unbuttoned, his tie untied.


Paul gave him “thumbs up” while George scurried over to knot a traditional Small Knot for him.


“Yeah, we remember,” George said, concentrating on the tie. “One of us at a time…’n we’re supposed to wait for our intro. It’s all drama – that.”  


“Cavern Dwellers, one and all!” Bob Wooler’s joyous voice boomed as John slipped into his jacket, “Please welcome back on bass guitar, the talented and terrific…Mr. Paul McCartney!” Screams poured into the band room. Paul squeezed through the door and bounded to the stage.  


“And next,” Wooler oozed while John located his boots, “that adorable and amazin’ lad on his American Gretsch lead guitar…Mr. George Harrison!” George waved briefly, saying “hello” to this one and that as he edged through myriad bodies to the platform.  


“Now…chanka-chankin’ his way into yer hearts, your favourite Ric-thm guitarist, Mr. JohnLennon!” Bob, like almost everyone Merseyside, said John’s name as one word, and John hailed the audience as one – his leer on them all, his spell cast with one, sweeping glance.  


“And finally, on drums,” Bob paused eloquently, “our very own Jeff Chandler – mean…moody…and magnificent…Mr. Pete Best!”


The swell of screams almost knocked them over. Pete, watching his footing carefully and looking up only now and again, reached the boards and took the microphone that Paul handed him. Standing centre stage, he cleared his throat and waited to sing his Second Set solo number.


“Ladies and gentlemen,” Wooler concluded his spiel, “here they are…the stuff that screams are made ofvi…The Beeeeeatles!”


While the punters went mad, Paul scrambled to the rostrum and hoisted the drumsticks. George turned up his new Gibson amp, and John strummed his refitted Rickenbacker. After a dramatic moment or two, John gave the sign, and the four handsomely suited lads opened the second set of the night with an American club tune, Chubby Checker’s “Peppermint Twist.”


“Now, that’s more like it!” Brian mouthed to Alistair, above the din.


Alistair nodded obsequiously, but he was, nevertheless, unconvinced. The suits, he thought, were well and good, but the group on stage now was far more restrained than the rockers that had been standing there ten minutes ago. For Alistair, the metamorphosis had more cons than pros.


It was hard to shush the fans after Pete’s song. Shouts! Squeals! Screams went on forever. Paul chuckled a little and held up his hand.


“Now…” he began. Screams.


“Now…”  Cheers and applause.


Paul looked to Epstein, who motioned for him to go on with the programme, regardless.


“Now here’s a little ditty,” Paul tried, futilely. “Here’s a little ditty,” he repeated. Scattered shouts. “Here’s a little ditty that was a big hit for the late, great Buddy Holly,” he finally eked out, “and it’s called…well, you tell us!”


As the Cavern Dwellers shouted, “Cryin’, Waitin’, Hopin’!” with all their might, George leaned over to John. “See that kid Eppy was talkin’ about earlier?” George nodded in Brian Farrell’s direction. “The one in the second row that Eppy said was snappin’ our photos?”


“Yeah,” John smacked his gum, “so what?”    


“Well,” George smiled wryly, “he looks a bit like Alfred E. Newman, doesn’t he?”


John cut his eyes at the kid and burst into cackles. He was still laughing, when Paul and Pete slipped into song – and when George managed to catch up after the second eight. Finally, John lifted his guitar as well, high on his chest; he loosened his tie a little more and then joined them in the bridge.  


At that moment, Brian Farrell took the photo. He snapped it just as John looked straight at him, grinning widely for his camera alone.  


“Ah, great shot!” the boy whispered. “Priceless one!”


And rather pleased with himself, Farrell folded his arms and leaned back to watch his sister, the other Beatlettes, and all the Cavern Dwellers offer up a teary farewell to their lads:


“Cryin’…waitin’…hopin’… someday soon you’ll come back to me…I think about you all the time.”



Lewisohn, The Complete Beatles Chronicle, 69.


Harry, The Ultimate Beatles Encyclopedia, 552.


Best and Doncaster, 134, 149.


Pawlowski, How They Became The Beatles, 64.


Norman, Shout, 148.


Miles, The Beatles’ Diary, Vol. 1, 61.


Spitz, 299.


Leigh, Drummed Out: The Sacking of Pete Best, 23, 26.


Salewicz, McCartney, 130.


Lennon, Cynthia,  John, 81-82.


All details in this chapter, including the story of Brian and Bernadette Farrell and Val Davies, are factual. If you are fortunate enough to acquire a copy of Bill Harry’s MerseyBeat: The Beginnings of The Beatles, you can read the story about Ringo planning to leave Rory Storm and the Hurricanes on p. 30, in Virginia Harry’s column “Mersey Roundabout.” The actual poster mentioned in this chapter is found on page 31. The information about Paul’s drumming requirements of Pete Best come from Spencer Leigh’s book, Drummed Out: The Sacking of Pete Best (p. 56-57).  

If you’d like to see a photograph of Bernadette Farrell, taken by Brian Farrell, see p. 81 of Pawlowski’s How They Became The Beatles.

Jude Southerland Kessler is the author of the John Lennon Series:


Jude is represented by 910 Public Relations — @910PubRel on Twitter and 910 Public Relations on Facebook.


Tomorrow Never Knows: All Together Now!

In one of my favorite books on The Beatles and Liverpool, Liverpool: The 5th Beatle, author P. Willis Pitts says, “If The Beatles had not been from disparate cultures, they might not have survived. Ethnically, the four Beatles represented four very different facets of Liverpool in a microcosm. And this not only kept them together for so long, but was what made their music so juicy and colorful.”[1]


Never is that more obvious than in “Tomorrow Never Knows.”


Ringo, the earthy boy from The Dingle who unpretentiously coined remarkable idioms, gave us the clever title, “Tomorrow Never Knows.” When asked for the fourteen millionth time what the future would hold for The Beatles, Ringo (the actual working-class hero) shrugged and said, “Tomorrow never knows.” And instantly John logged the phrase in, just as he did with Ringo’s earlier wry observation about “a hard day…er, day’s night.” Like any author worth his salt, Lennon captured le mot juste (the best phrase) from his Scouse friend and eventually used it. (As John always said, “When you steal, steal from the best!”)


Furthermore, in the musical web that is “Tomorrow Never Knows,” Ringo’s drumming guided the group expertly through the complicated, interlocking sound. As Willis-Pitts so astutely observes, “Ringo laid it down, and unlike most drummers of the modern era, did not blend with Paul in that symbolic marriage of drummer and bassist…Ringo laid it down for the whole group.”[2] In “Tomorrow Never Knows,” Starr’s sound formed the unshakeable foundation upon which this otherwise unfettered and mystical song was constructed.[3]


Paul – the prim Allerton row house PR man for the group – provided the friendly introductions that propelled John to write the song. In 1966, Paul introduced John to Barry Miles and John Dunbar who ran London’s Indica bookstore. Here, John (initially in search of Nietzsche’s works) was handed a copy of Timothy Leary’s The Psychedelic Experience: A Manual Based on the Tibetan Book of the Dead.[4] Glomming hungrily onto this Cliffs Notes version of the Tibetan Book of the Dead, (Tim Riley refers to it as “a shortcut” to the ancient practice, a “trip guide”[5]) John conceived the idea of writing a musical equivalent to Leary’s work.


Paul’s part as “co-inspirator” for the song isn’t his only role, however, in the life of “Tomorrow Never Knows.” As Riley wisely observes in Tell Me Why, “Ringo and Paul…lay down a feverish groove beneath the chaos as noises, backwards guitars, and birds swoop all around them.”[6] Furthermore, the sixteen tape loops made by The Beatles which fill the song’s entirety were made in Paul’s home on his Grundig recorder. Paul introduced the others to his technique (as Sir George Martin explained it) of “moving the erase head and putting on a loop [so that] he could actually saturate the tape with a single noise. It would go round and round, and eventually the tape couldn’t absorb any more…”[7] McCartney’s technique was adopted by the others; The Beatles were given an assignment to create their own, and voila![8]


Though we are told that the spirited boy from Speke, George Harrison, did not play a large role on this track (other than performing guitar on his loops), “Tomorrow Never Knows” would have been virtually impossible without George. It is George who first dragged his mates into Eastern mysticism. In fact, in The Beatles Anthology, George questioned whether John truly understood the immensity of the lyrics in “Tomorrow Never Knows.” George said, “I am not too sure…John actually fully understood what he was saying. He knew he was onto something when he saw those words and turned them into a song. But to have experienced what the lyrics in that song are actually about? I don’t know if he fully understood it.”[9] And then George went on to explain the song in great detail. The philosophy behind the song was Harrison’s wheelhouse.


Whether or not John grasped the fullness of Leary’s words or the philosophy housed in The Tibetan Book of the Dead, our Woolton upper-middle class intellectual – John Lennon – penned a tribute to both that is accurate, poetic, and moving. With a wisdom that knew what to include and what to leave out, John lifted up the most pertinent points and linked them logically and artistically. From that opening line that initially fascinated him,


“Turn off your mind, relax, and float downstream; this is not dying…”


to the magnificent conclusion of the song, John walked the listener carefully through the process of 1) eliminating all conflicting outside thoughts, 2) focusing solely upon meditation, 3) allowing spiritual healing to occur, and finally, 4) facing death with the certainty of a new beginning, not a sad ending.[10]


Furthermore, without ever allowing the melody to become laborious or monotonous, John created a true Indian song, based upon one unvarying chord. As George Harrison observed, “Indian music doesn’t modulate…you pick what key you’re in, and it stays in that key…[and] “Tomorrow Never Knows” was the first [song] that stayed there; the whole song was on one chord.” Creating a song in this manner and yet making it palatable and memorable for non-Indian listeners was, in itself, a musical coup. Once again, John Lennon proved himself the equal of any songwriter. His work is brilliant.


P. Willis Pitts points out that “[The Beatles’] songs worked, more or less, because each piece was only part of a fragment, part of a whole. Like an exploded diagram of a functional machine, these separate productions were an indication of how Beatles’ songs worked.”[11] No part could function without the other, and it took the amalgam to make a classic.


Nowhere is this more obvious than in the final song on Revolver, “Tomorrow Never Knows.” Working together as The Boys gradually began to face “an ending” which will be “the beginning” for their solo careers, they all created a masterpiece and faced the hard days’ nights to come with a faith that whispered, “In the universe as a whole, all will eventually be well.”


[1] Willi-Pitts, Liverpool: The 5th Beatle, 117.

[2] Willis, Pitts, 118.

[3] In The Beatles Anthology, p. 210, Ringo comments, “I was proud of my drumming on ‘Tomorrow Never Knows,’…I was quite proud of my drumming all the way through, really.”

[4] Miles, Many Years from Now, 290-291 and Riley, Lennon, 303.

[5] Riley, Lennon, 304.

[6] Riley, Tell Me Why, 199.

[7] Turner, A Hard Days’ Write, 116.

[8] In The Beatles Anthology, 210, George says, “Everybody went home and made a spool, a loop.”

[9] The Beatles, The Beatles Anthology, 210.

[10] See George Harrison’s brilliant explanation of the song’s lyrics in The Anthology, 210.

[11] Willis-Pitts, 118.

Jude Southerland Kessler is the author of the John Lennon Series:


Jude is represented by 910 Public Relations — @910PubRel on Twitter and 910 Public Relations on Facebook.


Paul McCartney: Into His Life

As we continue looking at Side Two of Revolver, we thought it might be fun to compare and contrast two of Paul’s love songs…we’d love to hear from you about the similarities and differences you perceive!


Revolver is a Paul-centric LP. No doubt about it. It is the first of The Beatles’ LPs in which Sir Macca (and not the former “Leader Beatle,” John Lennon) dominates,  singing, and thus having composed, six of the 14 tracks. (Really, seven, if you count his predominate influence on “Yellow Submarine”).


John Lennon was the real-life “Ancient Mariner.” Like Coleridge’s weathered protagonist, Lennon always grabbed you by the elbow, and began to tell you his tragic life’s story. In “I’ll Cry Instead,” his BBC cover of Smokey Robinson’s “You Really Got A Hold On Me” (to which John adds the telling word, “Mother”), “If I Fell” or “I’m A Loser,” John is consistently bemoaning about Julia’s absence in his life and his consuming heartbreak over her loss…or perhaps, as he sees it, his inability to keep her.


“Beatle Paul” is just as thematically consistent. From early on, he composes songs about his struggling (and later, failing) relationship with Jane Asher. On Side One of Beatles For Sale, he reminds Jane in “I’ll Follow the Sun” that:


“One day, you’ll look to see I’m gone,

But tomorrow may rain, so I’ll follow the sun.

One day, you’ll know I was the one,

But tomorrow may rain, so I’ll follow the sun.

And now the time has come,

And so my love, I must go…

And though I lose a friend, in the end you will know…”


Then, on Side Two of Beatles for Sale, he tries a tougher tack, saying in “What You’re Doing”:


“You got me running…and there’s no fun in it…

Why would it be so much

To ask of you what you’re doin’ to me!?”


Over and over, in “We Can Work it Out,” “You Won’t See Me,” and “I’m Looking Through You,” Paul sings to Jane Asher of his frustration, of  his need for her to “be there” for him. In fact, our Fest Blog examined that theme earlier this year when we studied the lovely “Here, There, and Everywhere.


Now, here on Revolver’s Side Two, Paul speaks to Jane again, first in the uplifting “Good Day Sunshine” where he praises her for being with him on a sunny day, and then in the dark and poignant ballad, “For No One” and finally, in the brass-accompanied riot that is “Got to Get You Into My Life.” All three Side Two songs express Paul’s longing, in meter and verse, for his lady.


“Got to Get You Into My Life” – though admittedly a double entendre – a crafty nod to Paul’s use of marijuana – is in a basic, literal sense his mission statement.


“And then, suddenly, I see you!

Did I tell you I need you?

Every single day of my life!”


Song after song, ballad after ballad, Paul has been telling Jane (and hence, all of us) one thing: “Got to get you into my life.” And, the fact that Jane has justifiably resisted and sought her own very successful theatrical career has only inspired Paul to continue penning attention-getting poems set to music for her.


By 1966, however, it has become fairly obvious to them both that the relationship isn’t working. In fact, when Paul begs her to come home, “she takes her time and doesn’t feel she has to hurry…she no longer needs him.”  They’re at irreconcilable odds, really.


Perhaps, a clue to their unresolved issues is to be found in the way in which “For No One” was recorded. Because the entire song is Paul and only Paul. George and John are not needed. Ringo will play percussion…but Paul alone – the center of attention – will sing and perform his composition on the Steinway grand. Perhaps that is why for Jane Asher:


“… in her eyes, you see nothing,
No sign of love behind the tears
Cried for no one…

A love that should have lasted years.”


With the wrong instruments, “For No One” could have come off as “whiny and cheesy.” Instead, the composition (with the phenomenal clavichord work of Sir George Martin and the breath-taking French horn touches of Alan Civil) is elegant and deeply tragic on several levels. Because not only are Paul and Jane falling apart, but The Beatles are beginning to unravel as well.  When we hear those last words: “There will be times when all the things [they] said will fill your head. You won’t forget [them],” we somehow flash to the eroding friendship between John, Paul, George, and Ringo. We sigh.


And so, in the guise of his former, chipper self, Paul makes one last attempt on Revolver to woo Jane back again. Not discounting the very popular “marijuana theory” (which certainly exists on one level), in “Got to Get You Into My Life,” Paul expresses undiminished determination to get Jane into his life. He jauntily and emphatically speaks to her in hopes that the visions prevalent in “For No One” will never come to be. McCartney sings:


“What can I do, what can I be?

When I’m with you, I want to stay there!

And you know I’ll never leave…and if I do,

I know the way there!”


Here interestingly, Paul speaks his soul to Jane in an ear-catching new way, via a SOUL song! As Dr. Kit O’Toole, author of Songs We Were Singing: Guided Tours Through The Beatles Lesser Known Tracks has stated:


“The horns [in “Got to Get You Into My Life”] were a remnant of the band’s original idea to record Revolver at Stax Records in Memphis. They had long emulated the bass and drum sounds found on American soul records, and they wanted to extend that. So they recruited guitarist Steve Cropper of Booker T. and the MG’s to produce Revolver, and they asked Brian Epstein to “make it happen.” But all the Memphis studios wanted exorbitant fees to host The Beatles, so the boys ended up back in Abbey Road. But the soul sound still intrigued them, so “Got to Get You into My Life” is their interpretation of the genre.”  


“Got to Get You Into My Life” is one of Paul’s final attempts to catch Jane’s ear and to express his soul’s need for her lifelong companionship.


“You want her, you need her…

And yet you don’t believe her

When she says her love is dead:

You think she needs you.”


Both “Got to Get You Into My Life” and “For No One” are the swan songs for a love that could not survive. However, on 15 May 1967, when Paul met Linda Eastman in London’s Bag O’Nails, his long-deferred dream became reality. He got her into his life, and in that moment, everything changed.

Jude Southerland Kessler is the author of the John Lennon Series:


Jude is represented by 910 Public Relations — @910PubRel on Twitter and 910 Public Relations on Facebook.


Instant Karmal Knowledge

“And so this is Christmas,

And what have you done,

Another year over…

A new one just begun.”


Already it’s here. The final blog of 2016. The year is winding to a close faster than any of us ever wanted it to or imagined it could. But try as we might, we can’t slow its pace or turn back time. Life is rapidly moving on.


Two springs ago, the night my mother passed, she pointedly looked at me and said, “But…I didn’t get to do all the things I wanted to do!!!” It’s a haunting quote – one I’ve never forgotten. I wonder if John felt the same. I wonder how many people do.


I have a little snow globe on my desk that says, “Time is a gift.” Every day, I shake it, only to watch the snow flakes quickly settle to the bottom and fall silent. And as the magic swiftly vanishes, I think to myself how precious each moment is…how precious – and how fleeting.


Plainly said, each of us has but a moment – a brief time to reach out and offer love, to be kind, to be open, to give peace (and people) a chance, to appreciate life and those around us, to set things right. If The Beatles taught me anything, they taught me that we are here to give of ourselves to others. In Biblical terms, to “be not weary in well-doing.” The boys said it over and over:


  1. Love is giving, giving love.
  2. Ah! Look at all the lonely people!
  3. With our love, we can change the world…
  4. I get by, with a little help from my friends.
  5. Love, love, love…love is all you need.


And just in case you missed the message – couched as it is in this poetic form – John (in his unvarnished, lay-it-on-the-line manner) spelled it out for us all very clearly. You can’t miss the memo here:


Instant Karma’s gonna get you
Gonna knock you right on the head!
You better get yourself together…
Pretty soon you’re gonna be dead!
What in the world you thinking of
Laughing in the face of love?
What on earth you tryin’ to do?
It’s up to you! Yeah, you!!

Instant Karma’s gonna get you…
Gonna look you right in the face!
Better get yourself together, darlin’,
Join the human race!
How in the world you gonna see
Laughin’ at fools like me?
Who in the hell d’you think you are?
A super star?
Well, right you are!

Well, we all shine on
Like the moon and the stars and the sun…
Well, we all shine on!
Ev’ryone, come on!



I don’t know what “getting yourself together, darlin’” involves for you, but I know what it involves for me, and I think I’d best be doing it.


Because as the wild ride known as 2016 begins to tick away into memory, I think we can all agree that it has been challenging for us all. Some things were said that should never have been said. Some things were done that should never have been done. And while we’d like to believe that karma is not instant and life will give us abundant opportunity to make things right, the unrelenting march of time does not, my friend, slow for regret.


Instead, there is a finite amount of days before the ball drops in Times Square, a precious moment before the snowflakes settle. There isn’t “tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow,” as Shakespeare once suggested.  Instead, there is, “a bit of hurry up involved” to quote another Englishman, just as wise.


And so this is Christmas…and what have we done? Well, not as well as we’d hoped, actually. But perhaps in the next 30 days, we can undo some of that. We can try to Come Together and be friends again…repair and reunite, heal the hurts, and walk into 2017 closer than ever.


And that, I believe, is the message not only of our Beatles but of the season. May that light Shine On.


In honor of our beloved Sir George Martin and dedicated to the lasting memory of John Winston Lennon. John, you said that you never die until the last person who speaks your name is gone. “I call your name” daily. You will always be remembered.

Jude Southerland Kessler is the author of the John Lennon Series:


Jude is represented by 910 Public Relations — @910PubRel on Twitter and 910 Public Relations on Facebook.


I Know What It’s Like…

“I know what it’s like to be dead…I know what it is to be sad…”


John Lennon was the master of understatement. In a few, simple words, he could summarize a powerful idea, minimizing the emotion behind it. (To wit, “All we are saying is ‘Give peace a chance.'”) He could present a great concept unobtrusively, giving it a chance to be mulled over and accepted.


And that is exactly what John is doing in “She Said, She Said,” the compelling closer song to Side One of Revolver.


Possibly no one who ever lived better understood “what it’s like to be dead” and “what it is to be sad.” At age 4½, his parents bitterly wrangled over which of them was to have custody of John. Fred Lennon wanted to take his son away to New Zealand to live with him, and Julia Lennon wanted her son to be reared in Liverpool.


Whether Fred and Julia put the boy in between them and made him choose one or the other (the traditional point of view, and the version John always recited) or whether Fred and Julia came to an amicable agreement about John’s care (as Fred’s friend, Billy Hall told Mark Lewisohn…though admittedly, Hall was not actually in the room when this discussion took place), the fact of the matter is, Fred exited John’s life. And Julia – for extremely complicated reasons of her own – did return John to Liverpool but dropped the boy that afternoon at her sister Mimi’s house, where John was to live permanently. And, Julia reluctantly walked away to live a life of her own.


Over the next few years, as John struggled to adapt (and was – no wonder! – expelled for misbehavior from Mosspits Infant’s School), he thought quite a bit about his vanished parents. Fred’s frequent letters to his son were destroyed by Mimi, who claimed (and perhaps truly believed) that she was creating stability for the child.


Therefore, John – in essence – thought his father was, at first, angry with him. And then later, missing in action. And finally, perhaps dead. Even though John reveled in the love that his wonderful Uncle George provided – clung to that love like a life raft – the boy still longed for his father. And with each silent, passing year, John understood better and better what it was like to be dead. What it was to be sad.


Similarly, John’s mother, Julia, – though living only a couple of miles away, in Spring Wood – honored Mimi’s request to minimize intervention into John’s life. Julia was rarely seen, and even when she was, the reunion was brief. But it was enough for John. As Fred’s memory slowly faded, Julia’s did not. He ached for his mother. And John tried everything he could think of (good behavior, bad behavior, wit, talent, and imagination) to reach her…to no avail.


The only constants in John’s young life were his decorous Aunt Mimi and his beloved Uncle “Ge’rge.” But the summer before John turned 15 years old – when he most needed a male role model and a best mate – kind, funny, gentle Uncle George was taken from him forever. And, as John roared and flailed in the throes of unstoppable hysteria, he knew once again what it was like to be dead…what it was to be sad.


You probably know the rest of the story: how Julia returned at this crucial moment in her son’s life and offered herself as his best friend (not his mum, of course…he already had a mother in Mimi). Julia became his constant companion and John, her shadow. She encouraged the teenager to “sag off school” and bike to her house for ginger beer, sweet cakes, and rock’n’roll. She taught her son to play guitar; she spun her Buddy Holly and Elvis records for him. She gave him the gift of extemporaneous laughter. And in the magic of the moment, Julia whispered to the boy that he had “music in bones.” She said, she said that he was destined to form a band – to see his name in lights, to shine on. And for a time, all was well.


But on 15 July 1958, Julia was hit by a drunk off-duty policeman and killed. And in that instant, John changed. He had lost his father, his uncle, and now his mother – twice. And now, in a deep, violet darkness of the soul, John came to understand intimately what it was like to be dead…what it was to be sad.


That, of course, explains August of 1960: The Beatles, happily en route to Hamburg, stop at the Arnhem War Memorial for a snack and a smoke. Manager Allan Williams urges all of the boys out of the minibus for a roadside picnic and photograph. But John will not exit. He refuses to “muck about” in a graveyard…to smile and chit-chat in the presence of death. And so, alone, John broods on the bus, shaken by his surroundings. And though Williams berates the boy for his obstinacy, John turns a deaf ear. Because even on his best of days, John remembers what it’s like to be dead, what it is to be sad. And he does not take it lightly.


Now…substitute the name “Peter Fonda” for “Allan Williams.”
Substitute “Hollywood gala” for “Arnhem War Memorial.”
Substitute “August 1965” for “August 1960.”
And having made those few changes, the backstory for “She Said, She Said” emerges:


At an August 1965 Hollywood gala, John blanches when Peter Fonda “rambles on” about his first-hand knowledge of death. Rattled, John flash-fires at the American film star and silences him forthwith…not because Fonda is downing John’s drug-induced mellow, but because Fonda is trampling on sacred ground. Introducing the topic of death as party prattle – as idle chatter – is not, to John’s way of thinking, simply “irritating.” The American star has been grossly inappropriate. He has opened old wounds, and John is left panting for air.


John swiftly quells the subject, and the party moves on. But the damage has already been done, and in the months that follow, John can never shush the lingering, whispering memories that Fonda’s casual party boast (“I know what it’s like to be dead!”) engendered. The phrase haunts Lennon. And so, just as John in the past had transformed many other wounds and torments into music, he begins to weave Fonda’s hellish echo into something unforgettable as well. John begins to write “She Said, She Said.”


But this time, however, John isn’t writing just for himself and about himself. He begins to compose the tragic tale of all four Beatles in the year of our Lord, 1966. And the story isn’t easy to convey…


You see, in 1966, The Beatles were living under a dome of stress that would have collapsed most organizations and failed most friendships. The beleaguered boys were getting ready for yet another World Tour, despite the fact that they’d grown bitter and cynical about the grueling experience. Brian Epstein’s heavy-handed influence. which had always held them on course was slipping away, and the boys were arguing with one another – heavily involving themselves in drugs as pressures all about them were mounting.

Unfeeling “takers” were attacking them from all sides: screaming fans who didn’t hear them when they sang; journalists and paparazzi who didn’t see how very bored and tortured the boys were, and unfeeling powers-that-be at Capitol, EMI, and Northern Music who didn’t care that The Beatles were utterly exhausted. To all of these users and shakers, the four boys were virtually invisible. It was a harsh reality.


Indeed, John, Paul, George, and Ringo began to feel as if they “had never been born,” as if only “The Collective” – the band known as The Beatles – really mattered. The four unique individuals who had once comprised the group had, somewhere along the line, been sacrificed (in true Help! fashion), “jolly with a knife!”


This is John’s message in “She Said, She Said.” In simple terms, he conveys each of The Beatles’ feelings. He speaks in muted understatement, presenting his friends’ great hopes and even greater fears as they face the end of touring and the beginning of “the yet-to-come.”


This anguished song is pure performance art, a vivid medium through which John can offer listeners the graphic opportunity to see, hear, feel, and experience what he and Paul and George and Ringo were enduring. As the song swirls up and up to confusion and clamor, each of us is given the chance to ride out the mania, to understand. We are privy to madness.


“She Said, She Said” is a rare sortie into the most intimate emotions of The Beatles in 1966…and into the solitary, broken life of John Lennon, for whom death and sadness were familiar escorts. Of this John sings, as Revolver finds the playout grooves and Side One concludes. Of course, on the flip side, there was more to come.

Jude Southerland Kessler is the author of the John Lennon Series:


Jude is represented by 910 Public Relations — @910PubRel on Twitter and 910 Public Relations on Facebook.