Paul Is Undead: The British Zombie Invasion

by Alan Goldsher

  I said, “George, after what I’ve seen over the past four years, nothing can possibly freak me out.”

  He said, “If you say so.”

  And then he reached behind his sofa and pulled out something that freaked me out.

  He said, “So what do you think?”

  I asked him, “Is that what I think it is?”

  He said, “Dunno. What do you think it is?”

  I said, “I think it’s a guitar fashioned out of the skin that slid off your body. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to shove off to the loo and say good-bye to my lunch.”

  GEORGE HARRISON: For the previous several months, I’d been hearing different musical noises in my head, sounds that my trusty old Epiphone wasn’t capable of making. So when the first two layers of my skin slid off during my LSD trip, I got out my tools and went to work.

  The first thing I did was bake my fallen skin in the oven at a low temperature for about forty-five minutes, so it’d stiffen up without rotting, and hopefully get a bit darker in color. I watched it carefully, because if I overcooked it, it’d get crispy and lose its pliancy and resonance. Once the skin was heated to my satisfaction, I brought out an X-Acto knife, set one layer of the epidermis aside, and cut the other layer into what I believed would be the perfect shape for an instrument. I then cooked up some porridge—overcooked, actually, so it’d be nice and thick—and slathered it all over the skin; then I put the whole mess back into the oven for ten or so minutes. Meanwhile, I rolled up the other skin layer into a nice, tight tube, then went to the oven and removed what was about to become the instrument’s body, then glued the two pieces together with some more porridge, then put it back in the oven for a few more minutes, then after it cooled down, I covered it with shellac. When it dried, I put eight strings on it—if six is good, eight is better—and voila, a skintar.

  One strum, and I fell in love with the sound—full, singing, and meaty—but I knew right off the bat that keeping it in tune would be an issue.

  NEIL ASPINALL: When I came out of the bathroom, George said, “You’re the roadie, so here’s a question for you: Can I bring the skintar on tour with us?”

  It was grotty, utterly grotty, but, even more problematical, it didn’t sound particularly good, so I told him, “Best you leave it at home, Georgie. I have a hunch the Japanese won’t take too kindly to that sort of thing. They’re already cheesed-off with Ringo, and we don’t need any more trouble.”

  George nodded, and said, “Oh. Right. That Ninja shit. Good point.”

  RINGO STARR: Eppy had scheduled the Tokyo shows months before, and since we’d never been to Japan, the country was going mad. Aside from the Japanese wanting to hear us live, Japan has a very small zombie population, and since most of the population had never seen any undead, the curiosity level was through the ceiling.

  This isn’t to say they were looking forward to seeing us. See, Japan had a huge warrior population, and, as I soon found out, Japanese warriors weren’t big fans of British Ninja Lords.

  Like me.

  PAUL MCCARTNEY: That press conference in Tokyo was a nightmare. Those journos are lucky John didn’t attack them, y’know.

  JOHN LENNON: Hey, if you’re fookin’ with Ringo, that means you’re fookin’ with me.

  RINGO STARR: The writers thought I was a phony. They made it clear that the belief around the country was, the only reason I’d been given Seventh Level status was because I was a rock star, and I was besmirching the good Ninja Lord name. I tried to explain that I reached the Seventh Level before joining the Beatles, but they either weren’t listening or didn’t believe me. I wanted to cry, but Lords above Fourth Level aren’t allowed to cry in public.

  JOHN LENNON: Ringo clammed up, but it wouldn’t have mattered if the poor guy was reading the Magna Carta, because all those bastards would’ve shouted him down anyhow. I leaned over to Ringo and said, “You’ve gotta do something physical.”

  He mumbled, “The only thing I want to do is get out of here.”

  I told him, “Listen, the only thing these cunts’ll understand is a demonstration of your Ninja talents. Be a warrior. Show them the skills, mate. And if you have to make one of ’em bleed, so be it. I give you full permission, because nobody but nobody can shit on the Beatles without incurring our wrath.”

  RINGO STARR: John had a point. If I showed them Seventh Level skills, there was a better chance they’d accept me. Problem was, I wasn’t comfortable frivolously using my Ninja techniques, especially near the actual birthplace of the Ninja movement. Defending yourself during a physical attack is accepted—encouraged, even—but going on the offensive during a verbal barrage isn’t.

  But once the bloke from the Sekai Nippo newspaper threw a spitball at me, all bets were off.

  PAUL MCCARTNEY: I knew Ringo could move fast, but I didn’t know how fast. If I could’ve actually seen what he did, I’m certain it would’ve been a sight to behold, y’know, but I only saw the results. A dozen or so reporters were screaming accusations at our poor drummer, then I blinked, and the bloke from Sekai Nippo is hanging from the ceiling fan by his tie, and two other reporters are pinned on the wall with Ninja stars, and the rest of the lot are facedown on the ground, their wrists tied behind their backs. That little stunt probably cost us thousands and thousands of dollars in lost record sales, but I couldn’t blame Ringo one bit.

  It shouldn’t have ever happened, really. These guys were Japanese, for goodness sake. They were raised at the home of the Ninja, and they should’ve known better than to piss off an honest-to-goodness Ninja Lord.

  RINGO STARR: The story was all over the news, and the fans weren’t happy. The next day, we started our run of three nights at the Budokan Hall, and the crowd booed before each song, during each song, and after each song. When they weren’t booing, they were yelling for my scalp. But the Japanese are generally a peaceful lot, and they never went after me; it was just a bunch of noise.

  Still, I couldn’t wait to get out of that country and over to the Philippines. I knew it would be far, far better.

  GEORGE HARRISON: The Philippines were far, far worse.

  JOHN LENNON: We were always going, going, going, and we barely had the opportunity to check out our own local newspapers, so how was I supposed to find the time to read what was happening in the fookin’ Philippines?

  PAUL MCCARTNEY: The Filipinos had it out for us from the get-go. Had we known what had happened there the year before with the zombie population, we probably would’ve skipped it altogether.

  An award-winning reporter for The Philippine Star, Rizal Guintu is the kind of guy who would run into a burning building if he thought there was a story to be written. Unflappable and unafraid, his coverage of the 1965 undead uprising in Manila is believed by those in the know to be the most accurate depiction of the havoc that can be wreaked by a Filipino zombie, a belief that I wouldn’t dispute after interviewing him in July 2000.

  RIZAL GUINTU: As a group, we Filipino are, size-wise, a small people, but the majority of our undead have the strength and quickness of the biggest North American zombie you can find. And they are aggressive, these zombies, very, very aggressive.

  The year before the Beatles’ visit, Ferdinand Marcos had taken control of the country, and one of his first acts was to change the laws regarding zombies. For the previous five or six decades, the government and the zombies had reached a comfortable accord: the undead were segregated in an area on the outskirts of Antipolo, and in exchange for their promise not to interact with the general population, they were given the brains of the nearly dying for sustenance. It was not a perfect system, but it kept the inevitable undead-versus-human conflicts to a bare minimum.

  Then Marcos changed the laws for no reason other than that he desired to put his own imprint on the country. It was his administration, and he was going to do things his way, whether or not it made sense. The primary tenet of the new law was that zombies were allowed to walk among the human population, but Marcos took
away their access to sustenance—in other words, when it came to brains, they were on their own. This led to mass murders, which led to hundreds of incarcerated zombies, which led to thousands of angry zombies, which led to a storming of the Malacañan Palace.

  Marcos and his family escaped the attack unharmed, but fifty-four members of the Presidential Guard were killed, and the army—who most believed up to that point was impenetrable—lost ninety-nine men. Not a single zombie was hurt.

  In order to quell any further war action, Marcos reinstituted the previous undead laws, and sent the zombies back to Antipolo. There was an uneasy truce, and there was still the sense that the situation could explode with the slightest provocation.

  The blood of the dead military men and the tears of their families had barely dried when the Beatles landed at Ninoy Aquino International Airport on July 3, so few were surprised when the Liverpool zombies were not greeted with open arms.

  BRIAN EPSTEIN: Police surrounded us from the second we landed at the airport. We thought they were there to protect us. What we didn’t know was that we actually needed to be protected from them. Fortunately, these dunderheads had no idea how to harm a zombie, which explains why they did such a horrendous job quashing the uprising in the first place.

  They tried poisoning our food, which was completely ineffective. My stomach was in knots, so I couldn’t eat a thing, and Ringo was appalled by Far Eastern cuisine, so he lived on the baked beans he’d brought from home. John, Paul, and George, however, happily chowed down on kare-kare, binakol, and pancit … all of which was laced with copious amounts of strychnine. It gave the lads horrible gas, and their skin turned neon blue, but no harm was done.

  The next assassination attempt came the night before the concert, when the police threw John out of his twenty-fifth-floor hotel room while he was still asleep. He woke up briefly when he hit the pavement, then went right back to dreamland. Eventually the police came and told him to get back to his room, as his snoring was scaring the local children.

  But that wasn’t the end. The morning of the concert, they kidnapped Paul, who went along with it for about an hour. When he got bored with the exercise, he hypnotized his captors and made them bring him back to the hotel. Under the power of his puppy-dog eyes, they quickly became enamored with Macca, so much so that they offered him the services of several of the city’s finest prostitutes, which he gracefully declined.

  Then we were invited to lunch with the president and the first lady. We were going to take a pass, but they trained several guns on me and explained that attendance was mandatory, and if we refused, I was a dead man. John said, “You know what, boys? Let’s do this. It’ll be a giggle.”

  JOHN LENNON: You could tell by the way Marcos governed the undead that he was a cunt. I’m not one to get out there and protest for zombie rights, but the way my Filipino brethren were treated was appalling, and if I had the opportunity to do something about it, I’d take it.

  Paul, George, and I weren’t exactly eager to eat any more strychnine—we’d just gotten our gas under control—so we zombie types took a pass on the meal. Ringo and Eppy didn’t want to die a horrible death, so they also gracefully declined. Marcos and his cunty wife, Imelda, pretended to be insulted that we’d declined the tainted food. They were horrible actors, those two. Marcos then started in with a bunch of We’re-honored-to-have-you-in-our-fine-country-and-you-should-be-honored-to-eat-the-food-we-have-so-kindly-provided-for-you claptrap, and Paulie just burst out in giggles. Marcos then lost his composure and yelled, “What are you laughing at? I welcomed you into my country and invited you into my home, and you disrespect me at my own dining table? This is an outrage!”

  I pointed at my plate and said, “You tried to fookin’ poison us.”

  Imelda made a painfully fake insulted face and said, “How dare you accuse us of such treachery. That is the ultimate insult. We would never commit such a heinous act.”

  Paul said, “Is that right?” He pushed his plate toward her, and continued, “Then what say you take a little nibble of this?”

  RINGO STARR: Imelda turned white and said, “Thank you for the offer, Mr. McCartney, but I’m quite full.” She gestured toward her plate, which was practically untouched.

  Paul said, “You don’t need to take a full bite, love. Just a nibble, y’know.”

  Imelda said, “I couldn’t.”

  Paul said, “You can.”

  Imelda said, “I shouldn’t.”

  Paul said, “You should.”

  Imelda said, “I won’t.”

  Paul said, “That’s too bad.” Then he looked over at the president and said, “How about you, Ferdie? Can I interest you in a taste of death?”

  Ferdinand looked at Imelda, and Imelda looked at Ferdinand; then, at the exact same time, they stood up and ran toward the nearest exit.

  The security guys stared at one another for a minute, then the only one who spoke proper English said, “You are free to go, Beatles.”

  Brian said, “Thanks, mate. We’ll show ourselves out.”

  BRIAN EPSTEIN: Showing ourselves out of the palace wasn’t a problem, but showing ourselves out of the country was a whole other issue.

  What happened was, they unleashed the undead.

  JOHN LENNON: Christ, those midget Filipino zombies are strong.

  RINGO STARR: When those itty-bitty undead types were waiting for us at the airport, I made myself invisible. I sensed what they were about, and I wanted no part of it.

  NEIL ASPINALL: There were at least five hundred of them on the tarmac. They created a human pyramid—or, I suppose an inhuman pyramid—and blocked the plane. The pilot refused to move.

  PAUL MCCARTNEY: All I can say is, thank God Filipino zombies are very, very susceptible to hypnosis.

  BRIAN EPSTEIN: It was over in thirty seconds. John, Paul, and George sang some odd phrase in harmony—some rubbish like “Jay garoo divided um”—and those zombies broke up their pyramid, then removed their heads and flung them straight up into the air. As far as we knew, those heads never came down.

  GEORGE HARRISON: For me, that was the final straw. The Mania had overtaken our lives, and touring became a nonstop drag. If it wasn’t some Filipino fascist dictator trying to poison us, it was some American bird trying to steal our plonkers. Me, I was ready to pack it in altogether.

  JOHN LENNON: Nothing felt fun anymore. Touring was a nightmare. Playing the same tunes night after night was boring, boring, boring. Yeah, we still loved one another, but sometimes the sight of George’s gray face or Paul’s puppy-dog eyes got my stomach churning. It seemed like we were moving farther away from the Poppermost, and that “all for zombies, and zombies for all” business was getting tired. I needed a break … maybe a permanent one.

  RINGO STARR: I wanted two things: to reach the Eighth Level, and for everybody in the band to be happy. Whatever the majority wanted was cool with me. If they voted to keep moving forward as if everything was hunky-dory, fine. If they voted to call it a day, fine. If they voted to launch an offensive on Buckingham Palace, fine. If at least two of the blokes were happy, then I was happy.

  PAUL MCCARTNEY: The Beatles were not going to break up. The Beatles were never going to break up. Not if I had anything to say about it.

  CHAPTER SIX

  1967

  GEORGE MARTIN: The sessions that ultimately produced the Sgt. Pepper album were dizzying. The studio always seemed to be filled with special guests, some invited, some not: a full-blown orchestra, zombie groupies, visiting shinobi dignitaries from Borneo, and a few confused vampires. It was a revolving door, a parade of diverse faces and colorful clothing, and at one point on New Year’s Day, I swear I saw Stu Sutcliffe. When I mentioned that to the boys the next night, John laughed it off, called me a nutter, and then strongly suggested I never mention Stuart Sutcliffe again. When John Lennon strongly suggests you don’t do something, you don’t do it.

  John and Paul were especially intrigued with the string section; having all
those violins and cellos at their disposal seemed to tickle their fancy. I’m not sure whether they were taken by the sound of the orchestra, or whether they got off on controlling a dozen-plus musicians with a mere baton, but whatever it was, they were entranced. Naturally, that led to trouble.

  NEIL ASPINALL: We’d just finished up with the bit at the end of “A Day in the Life” where all the strings start out quietly sawing away, then get louder and louder and louder, until it all ends in a burst of orgasmic pleasure. John was so blown away by the whole thing that he actually had an orgasm that blew through the front of his trousers. There was dustmen everywhere, and a poor harp player named Sheila Bromberg caught the brunt of it. Dustmen is white, and Sheila’s dress was black, and it wasn’t pretty.

  After Johnny changed his pants, he stood up on a chair in front of the orchestra and said, “My lovely string section, you’ve given us a gift. You’ve given us joy. You’ve given us something that will endure until the end of time. And now, Paul McCartney and I would like to return the favor.”

  Paul said, “We would?”

  PAUL MCCARTNEY: I’d seen that look in Johnny’s eyes many, many times, y’know, and I knew exactly what favor meant.

  JOHN LENNON: I thought it was a brilliant idea then, and I think it was a brilliant idea now, and if I had it to do over, I’d do the same fookin’ thing.

  NEIL ASPINALL: I dunno if John and Paul were getting old or tired, or if all the various drug “experiments” had affected their reflexes, but their attacks weren’t as quick as they used to be. That didn’t mean their victims had a significantly better chance of escaping. All it meant was that it was easier for a bystander to see exactly what they were doing. Which, if you aren’t a fan of having nightmares for two consecutive weeks, wasn’t a good thing.