THE MAGIC SHOES: 7) PLEASE, PLEASE ME

Meltdown Monday Madness

I inhale a deep breath and slowly exhale. And then begin to read.

The crowning architectural feature of Liverpool, St. George’s Hall, has been described as “one of the greatest edifices in the world…”

Suddenly I’m standing in front of it.

St. George’s Hall is very grand indeed.

I look around. Red double-decker buses roll past vintage cars I haven’t seen in many decades.

I engage a distinguished-looking gent walking past. He is wearing a pinstripe suit and bowler hat, carrying a rolled umbrella and briefcase. I haven’t seen such distinguished attire for a long while either.

“Excuse me,” I say.

He stops, obligingly. “Yes?”

“Can you direct me to The Cavern Club?”

He quickly overcomes his expressive distaste of my own form of dress, especially my multicolored shoes, and points a route.

“Continue down Lime Street and it curves to the right into St. George’s Place. Keep going until you reach Roe Street, where you’ll turn left. That turns into Hood Street, where you’ll turn left onto Whitechapel and go to the end, where you have no choice but to turn onto Stanley Street. Then make a quick left into Mathew Street. Have you got all that, chappie?”

“Sort of,” I say, more confused than before. “Thank you. Oh,” I add, “can you please tell me today’s date?”

He narrows his eyes into mine then shrugs. “It’s the third of September.”

“Year?” I ask.

Now his eyes widen, as if I’m pranking him—or maybe I’m just retarded. “You don’t know what year it is?”

“Not exactly.” I pause. “But I’m hoping it’s either 1962 or 1963.”

He nods. “Nineteen sixty-two. Good day.” And off he trots.

I set off—and soon become confused by Roe and Hood Streets, which run parallel with one another in a one-way driving system. But eleven minutes later, after stopping two other passersby for directions, I am standing in front of the Cavern Club’s marquee:

“TONIGHT—THE BEATLES!”

My situation reminds me of a record album—Meet the Beatles—I held in my hands and listened to relentlessly when I was seven years-old.

However, it is too early for a nightclub. After successfully traveling through time, I now need to kill it. And so on this late summer day I saunter a half-mile to the River Mersey. From there, the great British invasion began and changed the sound of music forever.

Gerry and the Pacemakers come to mind: “Ferry Cross the Mersey.”

Mersey Ferries sit at the Liverpool Waterfront. I board their 50-minute river cruise.

This is where it began!

The highlight of the cruise is when the setting sun creates a bright red sky.

As dusk fades to dark, I stroll along the Liverpool Promenade with a feeling of exhilaration. As the first stars I appear, I retrace my steps to the Cavern Club.

A ticket to gain entry costs ten shillings.

“I have only American money,” I explain.

“You’re a yank, mate?”

I nod.

“Make it two dollars.”

Only two bucks to see The Beatles perform live? I happily cough up and proceed into the truly cavernous club with its brick arches and low ceiling.

It is smaller than I’d imagined, with a modest makeshift stage. I’m still too early, just me and a young man who is adjusting the cymbals of a drum kit.

My jaw drops when I realize I am looking at… Ringo Starr.

So young… little wonder, he’d only just turned 22.

I watch wordlessly, disbelieving my presence here.

“Where are the others?” I ask him.

Ringo looks up from his labor then looks around shaking the bangs of his hair from his eyes in a way that would soon have girls swooning. “I’m early. Just started playing with the lads two weeks ago.”

“You may not know it,” I cannot help but say. “But you guys—The Beatles—are going to be big. Huge!”

Ringo shoots me an amused expression. “You sound like Eppy.”

“Who?”

“Our manager.” Ringo grins. “’e’d sell me pee if ‘e could.”

Just then, George walks in. The two Beatles nod at one another and George puts down his guitar case. “Eeyar,” he says to Ringo.

“We have a fan.” Ringo motions at me with his shoulder while looking at George.

George shrugs, a serious expression on his face. Little wonder they called him the quiet Beatle. “We’re playing our own songs tonight,” he says to Ringo. “First time. Should be interesting.”

And I’m thinking, Man, I timed this right.

“You think Pete will be here with his fans?” asks Ringo.

George shrugs.

“I feel bad for him,” adds Ringo.

“I felt bad for you,” says George. “Pete Best forever, Ringo never! That can’t be fun, mate.”

Ringo shrugs it off.

“That’s right,” says George. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist. The band really gels with you on drums—takes it to a whole new level. They’ll come round, mate.”

“What are you leading with?” I ask.

“Me mates have written a song called ‘Please Please Me.’”

Ringo tilts his head. “What’s with the two pleases?”

George shrugs, shakes his head. “It’ll make or break us. We’re actually recording it tomorrow,” he adds.

“Really? Where?”

George is looking down at my shoes. “Those are some webs,” he says to me.

“My shoes?” I say.

He nods.

“Psychedelic,” I say.

“You’re not from around ‘ere, eh, mate? We call them webs. But what do you mean by psychedelic?”

I smirk. “Not only will you find out, you’ll end up leading the psychedelic phenomenon from a yellow submarine.”

Ringo perks up. “Catchy phrase.”

I shake my head, smiling. “You have no idea.”

“Well, I’ve no idea what you’re on about.” George shakes his mop mane. “Yanks.”

And then John and Paul romp in like a couple of chums joking about one thing or another.

I’m too awestruck to say anything more. I can only step aside and observe the fab four assemble their mic stands, monitors and jumbled cables onstage.

Once everything is powered up, it’s time for a sound check. They blast out Please, Please Me.

It is raw and authentic. My Magic Shoes, all on their own, tap to the beat.

I focus on Ringo’s drum playing and lose myself in the various sounds his percussion instruments produce. One-by-one, I concentrate on the string tones and vocals of each musician, their harmonic rhythms merging.

And I realize this band’s secret of success: They embody a microcosm of universal unity.

At the end of the song, John addresses his bandmates. “That’s the one, lads!”

George gives Ringo an I-told-you-so wink.

John raises his guitar strap above his head to dismount his instrument. “Let’s celebrate with a round.”

The others follow as John aims for the bar and addresses a bartender who’d just arrived to set up his tools.

“Four pints,” he says.

“Cains?”

“That’ll do.”

Ringo catches my eye and gestures with his shoulder to join.

I take a deep breath and amble over.

“Pint of bitter?” Ringo asks.

I nod. I’m still speechless.

“He’s a yank,” George informs John and Paul. “Says we’ll be famous one day.”

“God help us,” says John, before eyeing me up and down. “Don’t go filling his ‘ead with dreams.” John motions at George. “We’re just four lads playing a dingy club. We’re not bloody prophets.”

“You never know, John,” Paul smirks. “He may be on to something.”

John rolls his eyes. “Have you gone barmy as well, Macca?”

“Just sayin’, Johnny.”

I finally mange to say something. “I understand you’re recording tomorrow.”

John shakes his head in dismay. “Gotta rise early for a train to London.”

“Exciting I say.”

“Not really,” says John. “Eppy wants us to sing here all night and supposedly arrive fresh in London. Slave-driver, ‘e is.”

I smirk. “It’ll be worth it.”

John rolls his eyes. “Easy for you.”

“If it’s such a hardship, I’ll carry your gear,” I offer.

John one-eyes me with suspicion, perhaps wondering what I’m up to. “Why not? So long as you pay your own way.” He looks at his bandmates. “We’re skint.”

I can scarcely believe what is about to happen. I’m about to become The Beatles’ first roadie!