Month: November 1995

11/24/1995 

I am the Egg Man…I am the Egg Man…

Welcome to Beatle mania…the 1990’s version.

It started when Gary Gersh, President of Capitol Records, invited a few of his close and personals to the famous Studio A for a private moment to hear the new Beatles’ song, “Free As A Bird.”  Security for the event was tighter than when The Beatles were recording.  The champagne was first-class, the music was awesome, the moment was spine-tingling.  Then, the anthology on ABC.

And all the memories that came with it.

I came of age with The Beatles.  Everyone else who was between the ages of 10 and 25 in the mid-1960’ can say the same.  A lot of people in our business today weren’t alive when The Beatles were changing our musical world.  Many at Network 40 missed their impact.  They all ask me the same question.  It was the question that Joan Lundon asked Ringo on Good Morning America.

“What made The Beatles so special?”

Hey, Joan, did you ever listen to their music?

The Beatles made musical history.  Why?  Because of the songs they wrote and performed.  What made the music special?  Now, there is the real question.  I don’t know if I, or anyone else, have the answer. I only know what I think.

The Beatles didn’t write and perform music that changed the world.  The Beatles wrote and performed music the reflected the changes taking place in the world.  And those who listened were more tuned in to the changes because of them.

John Lennon said The Beatles were a working class band that didn’t change.  That was true.  The Beatles, as singers and songwriters, stayed grounded in who they were as a group, even when they grew into other people as individuals.  They never viewed themselves from the outside, as did the world.  They kept focused on who they knew they were.

The band that changed the world? “We’re just four lads from Liverpool,” was John’s standard answer.  And it was true.

For the most part, The Beatles had fun.  Unlike most artists of today, The Beatles began with a sense of humor and they never lost it.  When you look at the footage of their live performances, you can tell The Beatles were having aa good a time as the audience.

Unlike most artists of today, The Beatles never bought into the hype about themselves.  They didn’t hide from fans or the press.  They were free with their thoughts and ideas.  There are literally hundreds of miles of tape and film featuring interviews with The Beatles.  Accessible?  It was part of their charm.  And part of themselves.

You see, The Beatles wrote and sang about the world around them.  To accurately reflect what was happening, they had to experience it.  Even after they became the most famous band in the world, they were still out there among us.

Elvis hid behind the walls of Graceland.  The Rock stars of today are inaccessible and unapproachable.  John Lennon was thrown out of the Troubador in Los Angeles for heckling an act.  He was also wearing Kotex on his head. I know. I was with him.

Boorish behavior, perhaps, but he was here, there and everywhere…just like the other Beatles.  They experienced life, then sang about it.

Our world was their world…and we shared it together.  They just sang it better than the rest of us.

The Beatles loved R&B music with a heavy back-beat and copied the sound in their early recordings.  I loved the music.

The Beatles made revolver and didn’t release a single.  It had never been done before.  I love that album.

The Beatles started smoking dope, experimented with LSD and sand “Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds.”  I fell in love with that song.

The Beatles wanted to put an orchestra behind a rock and roll beat.  It had never been done before, but George Martin, their producer, was more experienced with recording orchestras than Rock groups, so he figured it would be a natural.  And it was. I love thsse strings.

There was no such thing as a concept album before Sgt. Pepper. I love that record.

Like no other group before or since, The Beatles managed to change as the world changed around them…because they were in tune with the world.  As they grew, so did their music.  But they grew with us…not apart from us as so many performers do today.

They didn’t change the way we were.  They just recognized and identified they way we were all changing.  They were a working class band that never forgot their roots.

The Beatles were honest.  To a fault.  No hidden dope-smokers there.  Nope, they came out with it.  So there was no exposé…no tabloid story to conjure up hidden demons.

Except for the one time when John stubbed his toe and said The Beatles were more famous than Jesus Christ, they were mostly loved…for what they were and who they were.  And even that statement was honest.  John was responding to a question about their fame.  He didn’t mean The Beatles should e worshipped, just that because of the media, more people had heard about The Beatles in their day than anyone else at any other time before.

The Beatles were so busy laughing at themselves that nobody else had any room to laugh at them.

They were fab…they were famous…they were a kick in the ass.

Early in the ascension of The Beatles, John was asked what he did in the group.  He answered, “Sometimes I play guitar, but mostly I play the fool.”

They all did.  Beautifully.

The Beatles were all about long hair, lifestyle, laughter, peace and love, but mostly they were about music.

When asked what was next for The Beatles, their manager, Brian Epstein, said, “The next song.”

Thanks to their music, I am the walrus.  And so are you.

11/10/1995 

The night had begun to sour an hour or so before…with the rancid tropical drinks laced with rum, complete with the obligatory orchid and tiny umbrellas.  The drinks were served by howlies, pretending to be natives, to the patrons, pretending not to be tourists.  Neither managed to pull off the bluff.

My first mistake was eating the orchid.  The group that had gathered around me, happy to be led through the streets of Lahiana by a man of my supposed stature, began to cast long, suspicious looks in my direction.

Fair weather fools they were.  Without me, they would be perfectly content to see Maui perched atop the stools of one of the tourist traps with a cheap string of shells around their necks.

Not me.  I was searching for the real Hawaii…home of the most beautiful people in the world.  I wanted to dig deep into the depths and find the bones of those who lived when Lahaina was just a sleepy little whaling village…and before…when King Kamahamaha ruled the sand and surf.

To get there, sacrifices had to be made.  I explained this as quietly as possible to the rookie sitting on my left.  He was dressed in a newly purchased authentic Hawaiian shirt that was made, of course, in Hong Kong.  His wife, a dainty little waif who clutched his arm and smiled at everything, hung by his side and onto my every word.

I pulled the guy close.  “You understand, some of our group must die.”

All the blood drained from his face.  The waif choked on her Mai Tai.  The crushed ice streamed out of her nose.

“How’s that drink?” I asked

“Tolerable,” she managed.

Her husband leaned closer.  “What did you mean by that statement?”

I waved my hands around.  “Yee, God,” I whispered, “sacrifices, of course.  They’ll be stripped naked and staked to the sands, eaten by crabs, their bones used to make trinkets.”

The waif threw up on her shoes.  The husband stood up and backed away cautiously, his eyes never leaving my face.

I took another shot of rum.  Thinning out the heard is a process one must go through to get to the true core.  And no one is better at turning a large group into a small one than me.  I am a professional.

I jumped up and headed for the door.  “To the tunes,” I shouted.

Half the group thought I said, “tombs,” and we lost them.  Better still.  There wasn’t room for all in the karaoke bar.

I ordered another drink and listened half-way through some Japanese businessman trying his hand at Bon Jovi’s “Wanted: Dead Or Alive.” When I made my move.

“Somebody grab the mike,” I yelled as I tackled the would-be singer.

Nobody did.  As the businessman’s friends came to his defense, my “friends” headed for the exit and the safety of the street.  I found myself there shortly, helped by two able-bodied security guards on the look-out for people just like me.

“Perfect,” I grinned.  “Two survivors.”

My compatriots, Burt and Christine, were waiting…for my company or because I had the keys to the car? I couldn’t tell, but they had been through much worse with me before.

“Where to now?” Christine wanted to know.

“To the tattoo parlor,” I answered.

Burt immediately hailed a cab.

To hell with all of them.  I staggered down Front Street to the parlor, fell inside and demanded service.

“What would you like?” the tattooed tattoo proprietor questioned.

I pulled myself up to attention, or as close as the rum would allow.  “I want,” I said indignantly, “a gold stake in my left ear, just like King Kamahamaha.”

“No problem, mate,” he said.  “But you’ve got to understand that I do body piercing here.  We don’t use a gun.  I want you to feel the total piercing experience.”

With eyes gleaming, he pulled out a long, shiny ice pick and waved it in front of my eyes.

I didn’t waver.  “You’re going to stick that in my ear?”

He grinned.  “Anywhere you like.”

“Does it hurt?”

A bigger grin.  “The pain is tolerable.”

I asked for the ice pick.  He handed it over and leaned on the counter.  I hefted it, checked the weights and balance as I checked him out.  The dude was pierced all over…holes in each ear, both nostrils, tongue, everywhere except…

I slammed the pick through the back of his hand, nailing him to the counter.  His screams followed me out of the door.  I surmised that his tolerance of pain wasn’t as high as he suspected.

I managed to make it to the beach before my legs finally gave out.  Rum has that effect on me.  I inhaled sand for a while before passing out completely, waking up hours later in a puddle of slobber and sea water.

“I thought you weren’t going to make it,” a voice rumbled behind me.

I rolled over on my back and saw King Kamahamaha himself, outfitted only in a thong made of leaves.  In one hand he held a crude spear…in the other, what was left of my bottle of rum.

“Are you him?” I asked.  “Kamahamaha?”

He nodded.

“The King!” I cried.

He laughed and sat down beside me.  “No, I’m Ken Kamahamaha.”

I frowned.  “Any relation?”

He shrugged.  “Some.”

I contemplated his answer for a while and reached for the bottle.  Together, we emptied it. 

“What’s that matter, brudder?” he asked.  “You look sad.”

I was.  “I wanted to get my ear pierced with a golden spike, just like King Kamahamaha.”

“You mean like this?” He held out a huge hand.  In his palm was a golden spike.  It glistened like a diamond in the light of the full moon.

I lay back on the sand.  “Put it in.”

He shipped out a large knife with a dull point and went to work.  When he was done and the blood had dried, he asked, “How does it feel?”

I fingered the golden spike imbedded in my left ear.

“Tolerable.”