THE MAGIC SHOES: 8) ABBEY ROAD

Meltdown Monday Madness

Next thing I know, I’m in a recording studio handing John Lennon his Rickenbacker 325 guitar, which I must have carried for him from Liverpool to London.

“Where are we?” I whisper to him.

John crosses his eyes. “Are you daft, mate?” He pauses. “Abbey Road Studios.”

Abbey Road!

I shake my head. “I didn’t know this is where you started. I thought Abbey Road came much later.”

John hardens his gaze, studying me. “Like when?”

“Nineteen sixty-nine,” I say. “Your band will release an album called Abbey Road, named after this studio.”

John stares at me. “Have you been down a rabbit hole, mate?”

I nod agreeably. “Actually, I have.”

“One of me favorite books,” says John with a wink.

“Right, gents,” a voice booms into the studio from the control room. “Let’s take it from the top.”

John exudes confidence as he poises himself at the microphone while tuning his guitar. Conversely, Ringo seems nervous. He fidgets with his drumsticks and taps his fingers. George seems indifferent, steady, and cool. Little wonder they called him the “serious” Beatle. And Paul? Paul has this kind of wondrous whatever happens, happens persona from moment to moment.

A production engineer counts them down and the music starts. It’s a little rough at first. The occasional clinker note finds its way out. But the authenticity pleases me, and it pleases producers and technicians. The lead producer urges the band to play it again. And again.

And again.

And again.

Which is fine with me. I can’t get enough of this.

Eighteen times, in all—and, on the eighteenth, the control room announces they have what they need. “Thank you, boys.

Ringo quips, “I’ve got blisters on me fingers!”

And I immediately recognize where I’ve heard this lament before.

John is first to rip his guitar off. “Where’s the nearest pub?” he calls out to the control room.

“Tobias Kellar,” a metallic voice replies. “Not the nearest but it’s our local, other side of Regent’s Park. The studio motor will run you over.”

John turns to me. “You coming with?”

Another no-brainer.

Outside, the Fab Four and I squeeze into a tiny Austin Mini, no easy feat. Body odor dominates and leaves us relieved to reach our destination.

As we spill out onto the pavement, each band member blames the other for stinking up the car.

“It’s your socks, Ringo,” jokes John. “You owe us a round.”

Ringo laughs good naturedly. I guess he’s just happy to be in the band.

John leads the way through a Tudor-style façade of dark timber beams and white plaster walls. Antique lanterns cast a warm glow. Inside, a low ceiling of exposed wooden beams and vintage photographs line the walls.

The rich mahogany bar beckons and Ringo springs for a round of Tetley’s Bitter.

Brian Epstein arrives, elegantly attired in suit and tie. He glances around with a look of disdain on his face, as if he might prefer someplace grander, with greater sophistication.

“Let’s celebrate, boys,” he says. “Simpsons in the Strand.”

“I’m skint,” says Paul.

“No worries, I’m buying!” He is beaming, obviously pleased with their recording. “The crew says we have a hit!”

John plants a kiss on Epstein’s forehead.

“Drink up, lads.” Epstein notices me. “Who’s that?”

“A yank,” says George.

“Talks just like you,” adds Ringo, “about our future.”

Epstein regards me with an air of suspicion, as if I’m trying to bone in on his action. But he disguises this notion with politeness.

“What brings you here?” he asks.

I smile cheerfully. “They did!” I gesture at John, Paul, George and Ringo.

Brian turns to John for an explanation.

“Yessir.” John mock salutes his manager. “I like his webs.”

Epstein looks down at my shoes. His expression changes from polite indifference to amusement. “Enchanting,” he dryly remarks. “Where on earth did you find those?”

I shrug. “Right here in London town.” I look into Brian’s eyes and I’m overcome with sadness. In five years, he will be dead from an overdose at the tender age of thirty-two. Lennon believed Epstein’s premature death foreshadowed an end to The Beatles.

Should I tell him?

Would it alter the outcome if I did?

I look down at my Magic Shoes for an answer.

And then I also realize that John Lennon will not live to celebrate his forty-first birthday.

Should I tell him not to move to New York City? Or to The Dakota? I wonder if that would stop Mark David Chapman? Should I at least suggest he wear a bullet proof vest, say, starting late 1980?

The Magic Shoes begin to tap my feet furiously, uncontrollably, leading me to think this thought: Altering the past based on future knowledge can have unforeseen consequences. Doing this may disrupt the natural flow of events, which raises ethical questions about interfering with the course of history.

I know this. I get this.

But we’re talking about JOHN LENNON, for chrissakes.

Such amazingly creative music that never evolved, lost to a deranged assassin’s bullet.

And so I can’t help myself, I have to say something. Maybe just a hint about what’s to come—to hell with disrupting history and ethical questions.

“John,” I say, “a quick word?”

Lennon leans in, turns his head to give me his left ear.

“Be careful not to get shot,” I whisper.

John recoils, but then, lost in a thought of his own, seems to consider my words. “Where’s your biro?” he asks his manager.

Brian Epstein searches his inside suit jacket pocket and produces a fountain pen.

“Fancy, aren’t we?” Shaking his head, John takes the pen, scribbles on his wrist, hands it back to Brian before reverting to me. “Ta,” he says. “Good idea for a song.”

I look at what he has scribbled, still dripping ink: Happiness is a warm gun.

I wonder if history can only be changed in subtle ways?

These Magic Shoes must be dismayed by the faux pas it advised against, for they turn me in another direction and walk away.

“Where you going, mate?” asks Ringo, having quietly witnessed the odd exchange.

I try to turn around but only my head swings as the rest of me continues on. “These shoes have a mind of their own.”

Outside the pub, the shoes stop at an open-air table, prompting me to sit.

When I do, poof, I’m back in my chair at Bryars and Bryars on Cecil Court.

Both Bryars are studying me with unmasked curiosity.

“Holy Moly!” I exclaim, startling them. “I’ve just been hanging out with The Beatles!”

The brothers step back in unison.

I rise casually. “Thank you,” I say. “That was beautiful. Time to go.”

They watch wordlessly, mouths agape, as my shoes saunter me out of their shop.