Tune In

by Mark Lewisohn

  So it went, right through August. Wally Hill’s loss on Saturday nights was Brian Kelly’s gain—he booked them every week into Aintree Institute, where lads still lobbed chairs but girls gathered at the Beatles’ feet. Some pressed up to the stage; others sat on it, their legs dangling back over the edge; a few sat fully on the stage itself. They all looked up, mesmerized, and there were shrieks, excitement bubbling over in reaction to particular songs or movements—though it was never too much and didn’t mar the performance. There were shrieks of a different order at Hambleton Hall, the Huyton council-estate venue where the Beatles now played alternate Sundays with the Casbah. “You never get stung at the Hive of Jive,” Bob Wooler lyricized in his Echo ad. He had to be joking, especially when John started singing “Hully Gully.” These were particularly arduous nights for Neil, who had to get the Beatles’ equipment into the hall through a corridor of toughs.

  Neil had been a trainee accountant bored by trial balances. Now, when the condensation flowing off the Cavern bricks shorted a Beatles amp, he’d be unscrewing the plug and sticking the wires straight into the mains with a couple of matches, and holding them there until they finished a number.40 He’d be effecting repairs while John, Paul and George did a high-kicking Tiller Girls impression as a Shadows piss-take; when John wore a polythene bag over one of his shoes or just leaned back against the piano, picked his nose and stuck spent chewing gum on his amp; and when Paul walked on stage with shredded newspaper sticking out of his trouser legs, acting wide-eyed surprise when the audience pointed it out. It was pantomime time with the Beatles, like one of Aunt Mimi and Uncle George’s annual treats for the infant John. She’s behind you!

  Had Mimi seen John chewing gum and picking his nose in the name of entertainment, her reaction would itself have been worthy of the stage. Utter exasperation at his choice of “career” wasn’t Mimi’s only source of stress at this time. Just after Cyn returned from Hamburg, her mother sailed off to Canada for a few months and their terraced house in Hoylake was rented out. Cyn stayed at Mendips as if one of Mimi’s student lodgers. This brought the lovers properly under the same roof for the first time, which set everyone on their mettle. Mimi would no more allow premarital how’s-your-father on her premises than Lil Powell, Millie Sutcliffe or any other of their generation. It was one of numerous tensions that set in, and it was around this time that Mimi decided to see for herself exactly what it was John did for a living. She wanted to go to “this Cavern place,” without telling him. Her nephew Stan Parkes, John’s cousin, escorted her to Mathew Street and they trod gingerly down the slippery steps and into the subterranean hell-hole … where Mimi exclaimed with maximum irony, “Very nice, John. This is very nice!”41

  She wouldn’t allow a Mendips visit by the girls from the Beatles Fan Club, who were hoping to gather tidbits about John’s childhood for an information sheet. The club was launched at the start of August 1961 and had the Beatles’ full support from the moment Bernie Boyle suggested it to them. Boyle also shared his idea with Bob Wooler, and the DJ then introduced him to two girls from nearby St. Helens who could help him run it, Maureen O’Shea and Jennifer Dawes, devoted Beatles fans from the Cavern and some of the halls. The three joined forces: Bernie was 16, Jennifer 19 and Maureen 21, and respectively they became president, treasurer and secretary of the Beatles Fan Club.

  “We were dedicated to working for the Beatles and making them better and more professional,” says Jennifer Dawes. “They just wanted to play and everything else was irrelevant to them. They were very difficult to organize, but we thought they were marvelous and thoroughly enjoyed spending time in their company: we used to hang around with them and visit them at home. Of course, my mother had no idea what we were doing.”42

  Though the club was Bernie’s idea, the girls were better suited to the job, being able to type and happy to spend evenings stamping envelopes, so they effectively took it over between them. They set annual membership at five shillings, produced stenciled application forms and had membership cards printed for “1961–62 Season,” running August to August. They had badges made, and commissioned a set of photographs to be taken exclusively for members—“We said to the Beatles ‘Look smart, wear clean shirts and be on time,’ ” says Maureen O’Shea. “We were quite bossy with them. Of course, they turned up in their black leather and black T-shirts.”43

  The Beatles’ first Liverpool photo session—their first anywhere outside Hamburg—took place in the quiet of the Cavern before a lunchtime show. But, supportive as they were of the fans and their club, they weren’t especially cooperative with the photographer. Geoff Williams, a forty-something St. Helens man who usually did weddings and commercial work, found the Beatles tricky characters.44

  Mendips aside, the girls were warmly welcomed into the parents’ homes.

  MAUREEN: The Harrisons were very nice, and interested in the fan club. We went in the evening and they cooked us tea. George asked me where I’d gone to school and when I said “Notre Dame” he called me “The Hunchback of Notre Dame.” He also asked me out—he said “Do you want a date with me?”—and I said no. I was very keen on him but knew I couldn’t possibly introduce him to my mother because of his Liverpool accent.

  JENNIFER: George’s mum was telling us how much he weighed when he was born, and George said, “I didn’t have a guitar then—so it was just me weight, not the guitar.” He was quite thin and skinny was George.

  M: Jim McCartney was very welcoming so we went to Forthlin Road quite a few times. Once, when Jim was at work, we cooked chips for Paul and Mike. Jen and I took time off from our jobs. Mike took us to his bedroom and very proudly showed us his paintings and drawings.45

  M: I thought Mona Best was a very exotic woman. I’d never met anyone like her. She had the boys’ interests—well, mostly Pete’s—very much at heart.

  J: Pete was a pleasant, decent person but we always felt that he lived under rather peculiar circumstances at home. Mrs. Best was a difficult character, a hard-nosed businesswoman, and she and Neil were “very friendly.” Pete lived within her shadow—she always spoke for him.

  Bob Wooler was given honorary membership of the club and did all he could to encourage it. He invited Maureen and Jennifer to join him on stage at Litherland Town Hall and tell the audience what the club was for and how they could join. “The Beatles were on stage at the time,” Maureen says. “We had our backs to them. George, Paul and Pete were probably smiling and John was probably smirking.”

  Wooler had been the Beatles’ biggest champion since their first return from Hamburg—“squarely behind the pivotal moments,” as Bernie Boyle puts it. Recognizing his contribution to the local music scene, and his precision with words, Bill Harry invited him to write a regular column in Mersey Beat, and on August 31, 1961, Wooler kicked off by tackling the subject that was on everyone’s lips. The result was the first piece of journalism about the Beatles, an article of rare perception and prescience, deserving of being reproduced here in its entirety.

  A PHENOMENON CALLED THE BEATLES!

  by Bob Wooler

  Why do you think The Beatles are so popular? Many people many times have asked me this question since that fantastic night (Tuesday, December 27th, 1960) at Litherland Town Hall, when the impact of the act was first felt on this side of the River. I consider myself privileged to have been associated with the launching of the group on that exciting occasion, and grateful for the opportunities of presenting them to fever-pitch audiences at practically all of the group’s subsequent appearances prior to their last Hamburg trip.

  Perhaps my close association with the group’s activities, both earlier this year and since their recent reappearance on the Merseyside scene, persuades people to think that I can produce a blueprint of The Beatles Success Story. It figures, I suppose, and if, in attempting to explain the popularity of their act, the following analysis is at variance with other people’s views, well that’s just one of those things. The question is nevertheless thought-
provoking.

  Well then, how to answer it? First some obvious observations. The Beatles are the biggest thing to have hit the Liverpool rock ’n’ roll setup in years. They were, and still are, the hottest local property any Rock promoter is likely to encounter. To many of these gentlemen’s ears, Beatle-brand noises are cacophonous on stage, but who can ignore the fact that the same sounds translate into the sweetest music this side of heaven at the box office!

  I think The Beatles are No. 1 because they resurrected original style rock ’n’ roll music, the origins of which are to be found in American negro singers. They hit the scene when it had been emasculated by figures like Cliff Richard and sounds like those electronic wonders The Shadows and their many imitators. Gone was the drive that inflamed the emotions. This was studio set jungle music purveyed skillfully in a chartwise direction by arrangement with the A & R men.

  The Beatles, therefore, exploded on a jaded scene. And to those people on the verge of quitting teendom—those who had experienced during their most impressionable years the impact of rhythm ’n’ blues music (raw rock ’n’ roll)—this was an experience, a process of regaining and reliving a style of sounds and associated feelings identifiable with their era.

  Here again, in The Beatles, was the stuff that screams are made of. Here was the excitement—both physical and aural—that symbolized the rebellion of youth in the ennuied mid-1950’s. This was the real thing. Here they were, first five and then four human dynamos generating a beat which was irresistible. Turning back the Rock clock. Pounding out items from Chuck Berry, Little Richard, Carl Perkins, The Coasters and the other great etceteras of the era. Here they were, unmindful of uniformity of dress. Unkempt-like long hair. Rugged yet romantic, appealing to both sexes. With calculated naivete and an ingenious, throw-away approach to their music. Affecting indifference to audience response and yet always saying “Thank-you.” Reviving interest in and commanding enthusiasm for numbers which descended the Charts way back. Popularizing (more than any other group) flipside items—example, “Boys.” Compelling attention and influencing, wittingly or unwittingly, other groups in the style, choice and presentation of songs.

  Essentially a vocal act, hardly ever instrumental (at least not in this country), here they were, independently minded, playing what they liked for kicks, kudos and cash. Privileged in having gained prestige and experience from a residency at the Hamburg Top Ten Club during the autumn and winter of last year. Musically authoritative and physically magnetic, example the mean, moody magnificence of drummer Pete Best—a sort of teenage Jeff Chandler. A remarkable variety of talented voices which song-wise sound distinctive, but when speaking, possess the same naivete of tone. Rhythmic revolutionaries. An act which from beginning to end is a succession of climaxes. A personality cult. Seemingly unambitious, yet fluctuating between the self-assured and the vulnerable. Truly a phenomenon—and also a predicament to promoters! Such are the fantastic Beatles. I don’t think anything like them will happen again.

  Mersey Beat definitively brought together all the local personalities within its pages. Wooler’s article ran alongside a Nems ad (“The finest record Selections in the North”), John Lennon was identified as the author of a strangely funny poem called “I Remember Arnold,” and Brian Epstein’s record reviews ran adjacent to an article about Rory Storm and the Hurricanes, whose photo adorned the front page. Their Pwllheli summer, now ending, had gone so well they’d been offered a repeat booking for 1962; in the meantime, after returning to Liverpool, they were hoping to play on the Continent, perhaps in Italy, France and Germany. Richy was keen for whatever trips could be arranged, but when they weren’t—when the hot air evaporated—his itch to travel, and to leave the Hurricanes, returned stronger than ever.

  The lure this time was America. It was always America, ever since he’d watched Gene Autry sing “South of the Border” and ride his horse through the prairie, when a sickly 10-year-old emerged halfway to paradise from a Dingle cinema. His love of rock and country music had only increased his intent to get there someday, and the end of his hope to do so as a merchant seaman hadn’t dented that. Blues music had entered his heart more recently and he’d already amassed a fair collection of import albums. One of these—bought in Hamburg and given to him by Gerry Marsden—was the anthology Bad Luck Blues, featuring (among others) Lonnie Johnson, Kokomo Arnold, Sleepy John Estes, Peetie Wheatstraw and Lightnin’ Hopkins. They were the real deal, black players from poverty way more crushing than Liverpool 8, most of them born around the turn of the twentieth century. Richy especially liked the two tracks by Lightnin’ Hopkins (“Highway Blues” and “Bad Things on My Mind”), and investigation revealed connections to Houston, Texas: he’d served prison time there, and eventually made his name with recordings for Gold Star, a local label.

  This was enough for Richy. He went down to the American Consulate, in the great Cunard Building at the Pier Head, and picked up immigration forms. He’d need to show he had money and the offer of work, so he wrote to Houston Chamber of Commerce, received a list of local employment agencies and, after further correspondence, picked out a job in a factory. He could always change it once he got there.46

  While Richy waited for news from America, the Hurricanes returned to the Liverpool scene. As usual, they cut a dash more sartorial than musical: they were the same post-Butlin’s as pre-Butlin’s, the same in 1961 as 1960. They simply didn’t change beyond the occasional inclusion of a new number; Starrtime! was one of the few elements of their show relatively up to date.

  Inevitably, Rory was taunted for his stammer and mocked for his vanity, but he always received fantastic encouragement at home from his mum. Through her generosity and love of company, Violet Caldwell fulfilled this role for many of the rock and rollers. Any time of the day or night, anyone was welcome to drop into 54 Broad Green Road—the house Rory had named Hurricaneville—and she’d serve up plates of food, endless cups of tea and lots of laughs through a thick fug of tobacco smoke.47

  Iris Caldwell remembers the late nights when her brother labored to express himself and Ringo sat quietly for hours, listening and probably contemplating Houston. “Ringo’s moods varied a lot. Sometimes he’d be very happy and animated and other times miserable and depressed. He had a strong effect on all the others present. If he was feeling happy, they all ended up happy. If he was sad, everyone seemed to be miserable.”48

  John, Paul and George saw more of Ringo in the Caldwells’ back room than they did on the circuit. After five months apart, the Beatles and the Hurricanes were back playing the same bills again once or twice a week, but they hooked up more often late at night, when the groups completed their respective gigs and dropped into either of two late-night venues: Joe’s Restaurant—a rockers’ rendezvous because it stayed open until 4AM—or here at Hurricaneville in Broad Green.a They knew Vi Caldwell from the days of the Morgue Skiffle Cellar, and George for longer still, from the time of his innocent young fling with Iris—but it was in this period of 1961 that these friendships moved onto a stronger footing.

  The three Beatles established a particularly warm and lasting relationship with Vi, the energetic and talkative 53-year-old fondly renamed Ma Storm by Bob Wooler. Everybody loved her. Several nights a week—after Neil and Pete had dropped them off and returned home to West Derby—John, Paul and George would be here with Ringo, Rory, Iris, Vi, her husband Ernie and sundry others who dropped in to wolf down her house specialties (cheese barm-cakes or chip butties), gulp gallons of tea and shout to be heard above this very Liverpool hubbub.

  The Beatles were the antithesis of the Hurricanes. While Rory’s repertoire hardly changed, the Beatles’ varied show to show—they kept the fans on their toes and themselves in touch with the latest releases coming into Nems. They performed both sides of the new Elvis number 1 hit: the uptempo B-side “I Feel So Bad,” which Paul sang, and the maudlin ballad “Wild in the Country,” which became one of the few numbers sung by Pete. No drums were needed, so he would step
out front and sing while John, Paul and George—who played the only guitar part—sat on the edge of the stage and harmonized. (There are no photos, unfortunately.)

  The Beatles weren’t averse to doing number 1s—for a short while they sang Del Shannon’s “Runaway.” Mostly, though, they stuck to obscure numbers no other group was doing: George and John sang the frantic “Red Hot,” found on a 1960 EP by Ronnie Hawkins; John did “Watch Your Step” by Bobby Parker (again reaping the reward of checking B-sides); and he said “I’m gonna do this one” the moment he heard “I Just Don’t Understand.” This record was all-original: a rock-waltz tempo, a sexy vocal from the young actress-singer Ann-Margret, a strong harmonica part and a sound like nothing the Beatles had ever heard, fuzz guitar, discovered by accident in a recording studio and impossible to re-create on stage; the Beatles also performed it without harmonica because John had to sing.

  There was one other new record John seized at this time. Chuck Berry had disappeared from the weekly music papers and his record releases had dried up; though details weren’t reported in Britain, the star was on bail in America, awaiting the (ultimately unsuccessful) appeal of a prison sentence for violating the Mann Act—the unlawful transportation of a female across state lines for immoral purposes. Then suddenly, in August 1961, he popped up with “I’m Talking About You” and it was typical Berry, with poetic lyrics and inimitable guitar. Other artists came and went, but Chuck Berry was always part of the Beatles’ set—they were still regularly playing “Almost Grown,” “Carol,” “I Got to Find My Baby,” “Johnny B. Goode,” “Little Queenie,” “Maybellene,” “Rock and Roll Music,” “Roll Over Beethoven,” “School Days,” “Sweet Little Sixteen,” “Thirty Days,” “Too Much Monkey Business” and “Memphis, Tennessee.”

  These songs came across stronger than ever now because Paul had got himself a new bass speaker. It came courtesy of the Big Three, who made the loudest sound of any Liverpool group—not just because Johnny Hutch hit the drums hardest but because their lead guitarist Adrian Barber had made a pair of huge loudspeakers for the guitars and voices. When Barber let it be known he could make more of these, for something like twenty-five guineas apiece, Paul ordered one for his Hofner Violin, paying Barber £5 every so often as far as summer 1962. Powered by his Selmer Truvoice amp, this was a vast piece of kit for the Beatles, an immense fifteen-inch loudspeaker inside a wooden cabinet standing five feet tall and painted black—and so, inevitably, it became known as “the coffin.”