The Long and Winding Road of a Beatles Fan

Bryant Gumbel asked me a provocative question the other day. He was in my television set, where he usually is, and I was on my couch, where I usually am. Bryant said, in that tense, squeaky tone, “Why should anyone other than Beatles fanatics be interested in this new Beatles music?” or words to that effect. He was talking about the new Beatles songs issued earlier this month. I answered him:

“Well, Bryant, they shouldn’t be! Relax! Let people be interested in whatever they want to be. Let them enjoy Spike Jones, or Kate Smith.”

It occurred to me, though, as one of millions whom Bryant would label a “fanatic” (try “appreciator”; we’re not all compulsive collectors of the “butcher cover” “Yesterday and Today” LP--first state) that his question shows how much time has passed since the Beatles were a functioning entity. I don’t know if I can answer Bryant without sounding maudlin or corny or pretentious, but I think the query deserves a try. Perhaps the answer can be found in a few anecdotes about a kid I used to know.

He was a gangly 14-year-old, living in an idyllic little wish of a town called Thousand Oaks. There beneath the blue suburban skies. In the proverbial house on the hill, no less. The year was 1967, the day was a real “nothin’-to-do day.” The kid grew up among thousands of “nothin’-to-do days.” It was stunningly sunny and still outside, the beginning of another summer of stunningly sunny, still afternoons.

A big panel truck suddenly lurched up the driveway, and a delivery guy got out. The kid, tanned and wearing a white T-shirt and cutoffs, opened the door. What could it be? Then he remembered. He had asked for “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band” and “Revolver” on advice from his older brother, who was away at college. His parents had the May Co., of all places, deliver the albums.

The kid was so thrilled, he could hardly believe his eyes, buying records was a major event in the family. He carefully tore open the cardboard containers and stared in wonder at the fantastic album covers for a long while. Finally, savoring the moment, he turned the stereo on and dropped the needle. The “nothin’to-do” day abruptly turned into a swirling, magic place of tangerine trees, marmalade skies, yellow submarines, Eleanor Rigby, French horns, broken carousels, clarinets, sitars and four thousand holes in Blackburn, Lancashire. At staggering volume.

The kid was never the same. New Beatles albums became the most coveted things under the Christmas tree; song debuts became life-defining moments. For the radio “world premiere” of “Hey Jude” he committed the sacrilege of uprooting his father’s prized Zenith radio from its bedside spot; he played “Sgt. Pepper” at really low volume every morning before school--a kind of happiness fix--something that drove one of his parents to hissing fits; he once walked about eight miles to get a copy of “Abbey Road” on the day it came out; green apples (the Beatles’ company logo) became magic icons.

Beatles songs have never been far from the kid’s mind; they provided abiding comfort during extremely difficult family problems, and they still provide comfort.

Now, please understand that this kid did not worship the Beatles. It’s just that, for those who grew up in the 1960s, the Beatles were simply a part of life--consistently offering perhaps the most surprising, innovative and hopeful works of art the world had to anticipate. As longtime Beatles friend and author Derek Taylor recently wrote, “Those were happy days and no one who sat by those transistors . . . and heard that unmistakable friendly music will ever forget how good it felt.”

The strange thing, the kid will tell you, is that it still feels good. Somehow, despite a lot of weirdness since the days of waiting for the new Beatles song-- simple aging, deaths of friends and parents, the brutal and insane murder of John Lennon, the social/economic/political/ecological horror that besets the planet, Paul McCartney singing with Michael Jackson--the music still feels good. It would seem to attest to something Lennon understood all too well, that a person’s spirit is bigger than a person’s life. And you’ll see you’re really only very small and life flows on within you and without you, as George Harrison once sang. Which brings up another anecdote.

It was 1982, and the kid--now a newspaperman--felt compelled to express his gratitude to the late Lennon. Because Lennon was known as the greatest Beatles fan of them all, the kid decided to write something for fans, and something that might focus on unreleased Beatles recordings. He wrote a massive, nine-part series for the old Herald Examiner titled “Off the Beatle Track.” Among other things, it broke the news to North America of the (just released) BBC material, with song-by-song descriptions.

One day, as the articles appeared, the kid got a phone call from good ol’ Dave (The Hullabalooer) Hull, the veteran deejay at good ol’ KRLA. At Dave’s suggestion, the kid promptly took a whole bunch of bootleg BBC Beatles recordings to KRLA and, by God, they played them right on the air. (The U.S. radio premiere of the BBC tracks?)

Well, listeners went crazy: What is this stuff? When is it coming out? How can I get it? Dave got away with it for two days before Capitol Records called to say, “Oh, you can’t do that.” The kid told friends he had the odd sensation of having awakened a very happy sleeping giant.

I offer two final anecdotes about the kid:

In 1983, he met the late Harry Nilsson at something called “Beatlefest.” Nilsson was signing autographs to raise money for handgun control, a noble gesture after the shooting of his dear friend Lennon. During a break, the kid pulled the rather brokenhearted Nilsson aside. He had an idea.

The kid told Nilsson of a Beatles song, recorded for the BBC in 1963, called “Soldier of Love.” It was written by the late, great Arthur Alexander, rearranged and sung beautifully by Lennon, and available only on bootleg albums. With lyrics such as Lay down your arms/ and love me peacefully . . . , it seemed a poignant and compelling theme song for an anti-handgun campaign. To say nothing of the fact that it was in keeping with Lennon’s attempts to further the cause of human cooperation.

Well, the singer said it was a fine idea, and asked to hear the song. The kid sent him a tape. Of course, as is often the case with fine ideas, nothing ever came of it. Except word that Nilsson loved the song.

It was about 10 years earlier that the kid met a guy named Mal Evans. He was one of the closest friends the Beatles ever had. He was a great, towering, sweet guy who basically took care of “the lads” in the studio and on the road--sometimes even contributing creatively to the music with an occasional lyric or cowbell. Well, Mal ended up . . . disappearing. Reportedly despondent in Los Angeles in the early ‘70s, he made the mistake of getting fairly intoxicated one night and allegedly threatening suicide. The police showed up, found Mal with a rifle, and killed him. His ashes were later lost in the mail.

The kid had met Mal Evans about three months before his death, when Mal was a guest at the Cal State Northridge radio station, KCSN, one Sunday night. The kid read about it in the paper, grabbed a friend and drove over to meet him, just for the hell of it. Mal was delighted; they chatted pleasantly for several minutes, then he went on the air. It was a call-in show, yet no calls came. Nobody seemed to realize who on earth Mal Evans was. Seeking to make the poor guy feel better, the kid and his friend stepped into an adjoining office and placed several calls to him, asking dopey questions like “Did you play the anvil on Maxwell’s Silver Hammer?” (He did.) Calls then picked up.

After the program, they all had a laugh about the little ploy, and the kid asked Mal how he felt about the possible regrouping of his old musician friends. Here’s his exact quote:

“Nothing would make me happier or prouder,” he said in considered, soft tones, “than to see the Beatles play together again.”

That, of course, can never happen. And because so much time has passed since they did play, Bryant must ask why their music is interesting, or why Harry Nilsson would be so pleased that the world is finally full of John Lennon singing lead on a “new” Beatles recording called “Soldier of Love.”

Or why Mal Evans, if he were here today, would probably be pretty happy, and pretty proud, anyhow.

Or why my life changed forever that day in 1967, when I opened the door to the May Co. deliveryman, bringing me “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band” and “Revolver.”