A Most Curious Place (J/P Slash R) - Chapter Three
Author: Lennonsmuse
Title: A Most Curious Place
Subject: A wild weekend in February '64 NYC and the start of Beatlemania in America
Chapter Three: Song Bird; Introduction to a Honey….
As far back as I can remember, music has been a huge part of my life and inspiration throughout…
Where did it all begin, more specifically?
Let’s see…..
I’ll say it started with my parents’ old Sinatra and Sammy Davis Jr. records, along with those by Cab Calloway, Ella Fitzgerald and big bands led by the likes of Glen Miller, Duke Ellington, Artie Shaw and Count Basie. Having been born the summer of ‘43, that’s the music I grew up hearing and learning to take my first steps to.
There were also the four years of piano lessons I took starting when I was eight years-old. My piano teacher's name was Mrs. Graves; an extremely gifted lady, but also one with no temperament for nonsense or bored little girls, and when my pre-adolescent concentration would fail me Mrs. Graves wouldn’t hesitate to get me right back in line with a stern warning and a crack of her little wooden pointer on the keys in front of me to encouragee a hasty refocusing on her lessons.
Then there were the thousands of grade school recitals that my parents, like all devoted parents, were obligated to attend even though they preferred jazz to classical. They didn’t have any choice with me, anyway. I was and still am a facetious soul who would’ve relished the opportunity to remind them that the piano lessons had been their idea in the first place.
Oh, and then came show choir when I was a senior in junior high.
And more predictably once I reached my senior year of high school and singers like The Shirelles and The Marvelettes had caught on and were fast becoming popular, being in a girl group was the natural progression from there.
We call ourselves The Honeys, by the way…and we get asked all the time why we chose that name. I think it’s obvious, isn’t it? We’re all girls, for one, so we thought it’d be sort of cute to have a name that signifies and perpetuates that image of how sweet and innocent and pure everyone thinks young girls should be. At least, that’s the image our folks would probably appreciate most. The honest truth is the three of us were fairly boy-crazy in high school and by the time graduation rolled around, our reasons for wanting to perform in competitions and dance halls was not only due to our common love for music, but because we loved the attention we got from all the guys while singing.
Unfortunately, it was usually the guys we didn’t want attention from that gave us the most; the ones with those soda pop-bottle thick lenses in their glasses and hair so greased you could fry an egg on top of their heads if they spent any length of time in the blazing sun. But aside from that little drawback, what girl doesn’t dream of dressing up in fancy clothes and singing for a bunch of attentive males who will eventually fall in love with them and grovel at their pretty high-heeled feet?
That part of performing hasn’t really changed much over the past couple of years…at least, not for my co-Honeys, Marla Sutherland and Jeannine Holloway. They’re still very much into this whole performing deal for the guys and the clothes they get to wear even though lately we’ve only been singing about three times a month. They still have hopes of meeting their Prince Charmings, getting married and living happily ever after just like in the fairy tales.
Me, on the other hand, believe that I’ve already found my prince…and he just happens to be a Harvard graduate several years my senior and The Honeys’ manager….
Steven J. Mitchell. Tall, sandy blonde-haired and green-eyed with a sturdy surfer’s body and clean-cut appearance that any girl’s parents would approve of.
My folks had been no exception.
In the future I suppose I’ll become Mrs. Steven J. Mitchell.
Nicole Gabriel-Mitchell. Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it? I think it does.
Of course, my parents will be absolutely overjoyed when that event finally occurs; their relief at getting their little girl married off to a handsome, intelligent and ambitious young man like Steven rather than the wildcat rock-n-roller they always feared I’d drag through their front door someday.
That, fortunately for them...or unfortunately in all probability....leaves them with only my baby sister Pam to worry about, not that she's a problem for our parents in that area; the one regarding boys. She's fifteen and currently going through this 'religious' phase wherein she's decided that she's going to devote her life to Jesus Christ and forsake all others of the male persuasion. Needless to say, she doesn't care much for her big sister at the moment since I'm apparently a rock music-loving 'sinner' who tramps around in tight dresses and heels, 'whoring' myself before 'all those nasty little drooling, filth-minded degenerates who call themselves men.'
So, yes, it's also suffice to say that Pammy doesn't like Steven nearly as much as my parents do.
Steven does take good care of me though. And he’s looked after us as a group, too. I can’t deny that. Those occasional weekend gigs he’s gotten us haven’t exactly paid peanuts either, but still, not quite what is required to make a full-time living from.
Not until we can score a record deal, at least…which is what he’s been promising for a while now.
I don’t hold him to that promise though. For me, the record deal is just a pipe dream. A happy circumstance if it happens, and if it doesn’t, I won’t be devastated.
I’m more a realist by nature, anyway. So, this is where my new job with The Boston Globe comes in handy. After one of our shows a few months ago, an inquisitive business-type looking lady by the name Francis Kramer and I were discussing modern music and its effect on the youth of today. She thought I sounded fairly knowledgeable of the subject and liked the way I expressed my opinions about it. As it turned out, Francis is the assistant-editor for The Boston Globe…and that’s how I came to start writing a weekly music column for the paper seven weeks ago called “Nicky’s Picks”, supplying my own photographs and all. Spares the newspaper’s small budget if I don’t need a paid photographer to tag along with me to all the studio and theater gigs the bands and singers I write about perform and record in; a fact that is much appreciated by our chief editor, Mr. Willard Goldberg, which he’s already made clear to me at every opportunity.
And my brand new day job is precisely how I stumbled upon the latest musical phenomena to sweep the nation…
A band from Liverpool England that call themselves The Beatles.
I have to admit, at first I was skeptical at best. I mean, really…Beatles? What did it mean, anyway? Since I knew how quirky the British were, I wondered if it was a private joke of some kind. Were these guys simply some sort of new gimmick? I expertly surmised that the wordplay on the “beat” part of their name could’ve had to do with the type of music they played, but the name itself certainly wasn’t as self-explanatory as something like, say…The Honeys, for instance. I became very curious about them…and convinced Francis and Mr. Goldberg that Steven and I would like to make the trip to New York on Friday, February the 7th for their arrival to The United States.
During the drive there we heard The Beatles’ songs being broadcast on nearly every major radio station there was and had fun bopping along to the tunes. Their music was catchy, I had to admit, but I was still a little skeptical about exactly who these guys were and why there was such a big fuss being raised over them.
It was only a matter of time before I would get the chance to experience that ‘fuss’ up close and personal, because there’s no describing the scene Steven and I witnessed outside the CBS Theatre, the Plaza Hotel and along every New York city block in-between that entire weekend. I have stacks of photographs to prove it. Every crazy minute of it. The crying and screaming girls were everywhere. I mean, we’re talking unabashed hysterics…and in full public view. No shame whatsoever. Too bad we couldn't have taken Pammy along. She would have been completely mortified.
I interviewed several of these poor girls and they could barely speak coherently for sobbing and cleaning their damp faces with tissues while hanging onto transistor radios blaring out Beatles songs and clutching Beatles photographs in their trembling little hands.
I was hoping to get an interview from or maybe even just a tiny glimpse of these guys when Steven booked us into a double suite at the Plaza, but no chance. Police were all over the place and even being a guest in the hotel became a hassle because whenever a Beatle was said to be anywhere in the vicinity, the rest of us were obviously second-class citizens. I somewhat resented being treated that way in my own country, while they were only visitors here….
But when it came time for us to brave the crowds lining the streets outdoors ourselves, I also came to understand why all the extra security was necessary.
Those girls would’ve ripped four little British guys limb from limb….as well as any guy unfortunate enough to be wearing a long dark overcoat or sporting anything even vaguely resembling a Beatles haircut. If you could call it a cut at all. Watching their arrival and press conference from earlier that day on a television set in my hotel room that Friday night, I couldn’t help but think all four of them looked more like a pair of scissors hadn’t been anywhere near their heads for at least the past month or two.
Regardless of the long hair they sported, they were all extremely witty, quick to respond and seemed very well-spoken and charming. Yeah, these Beatle guys were definitely the type my parents had feared I’d bring home someday. I could imagine my little sister brandishing a crucifix at and dousing them with Holy Water while crossing herself.
Thank God, for all of their sakes, a neatly groomed Harvard grad had come to the rescue...and probably just in the nick of time.
After a long day Saturday spent locating places to eat and shop, interviewing spectators, dodging crazed fan girls and chasing a line of photographers toward Central Park where three of the Beatles were rumored to have been taken for a short photo session, Steven and I once again said our goodnights and retired to our respective rooms to watch the coverage on television, all the while knowing that these four mop-crowned Princes of England dwelled only several floors above us in their new but strange environment.
Very late that night, unable to unwind enough to sleep for all the excitement of the past day and a half and clad in only a tattered yellow sweater and a casual black skirt with my long wavy dark hair pulled into a high-slung ponytail, I ventured out of my room in search of a soda machine because I was really craving a nice cold Coca-Cola and the hotel lounge was closed. Of course, it had been nearly two in the morning. Not that it mattered to me. I would just get the soda, go back to my room, drink it and then slip into a hot shower. Surely, by the time I did all that I’d be relaxed enough to at least lie down for hopefully a few hours sleep before we ordered room service for breakfast, had our morning coffee and headed to the CBS Theater to watch this Beatles phenomena continue to unfold.
Mine and Steven’s rooms were on the fifth floor and once I’d unsuccessfully searched its entirety for a single soda machine, I thought taking the elevator to the first floor, where I knew for sure I’d spotted one earlier, would be the best recourse.
I pressed the elevator 'down' button and stood there patiently. It opened and the friendly-looking elevator operator smiled at me. I got on and told him I wanted the ground floor to the lobby. No problem. No wayward, flustered Beatle fans found lurking the hallways. No trouble in sight. I got off at the ground floor, found the soda machine, stuck my quarter into the slot and pulled the door open to retrieve my nice cold bottle of cola.
Feat accomplished.
Except that when I rounded the corner to head back toward the elevator, I heard a slight commotion coming from the direction of the lobby. People approaching. Very loud and cheerful. Probably at least slightly intoxicated.
At the time I remember thinking ‘Oh, great! Steven’s going to kill me for sneaking out of my room in the middle of the night for a soda and being accosted by a bunch of drunk men. Wonderful!’….not to mention that I was slightly concerned about how I would handle said strange drunken men on my own.
That nice little elevator attendant hadn't waited for me to fetch my soda and return for the ride back up.
But it was too late to hide from them, because they were rounding the corner that led from the lobby by the time I’d almost reached the entryway that contained the elevators. If I turned heel and ran back around the corner to hide from them, that would probably just make them overtly curious and meddlesome about the little dark-haired girl who was running to escape. They might follow me, or worse. So I decided to play it cool. I would even take the elevator with them to show them that I wasn’t a bit afraid. I was armed with a glass bottle, after all! If any of them tried anything, he’d be wearing an imprint of my nice cold Coca-Cola bottle someplace on his scalp. And once I broke it over his head, I’d then have another weapon in the form of a jagged broken bottle for his friends in case they wanted a piece of the tough little brunette for themselves.
And to think that for some odd reason I've often been told that I inhabit an overactive imagination.
But I wasn’t about to be cowered into submission by some drunken hotel occupants, and if they even so much as made a rude comment, I’d have the elevator operator report them to hotel security and threaten to have them tossed out.
I heard them approaching…loud as they were, laughing and joking around, but I didn’t bother making eye contact with any of them. I simply went about my business of pressing the ‘up’ button for the return elevator, bottle of soda clasped in my hand. It wasn’t until the group of men drew nearer that I noticed their accents.
Not a language or accent that was hard to make out at all. They were speaking English…but it was clipped English and beginning to sound strangely familiar to me for all the times I’d heard it on the news and radio over the past two days.
British!
Stunned at the realization, I had turned to look at the rather tallish guy in the long dark coat heading up the group and was surprised to also see a face I'd recognized from televised press conferences at Kennedy International Airport on Friday and a room right inside The Plaza earlier that day.
It was one of The Beatles; the one called Paul.
“Good evenin', luv…” he grinned with a slight head nod and wink the moment he noticed me looking at him. “You mind if we share the lift goin' up?”
The lift? Elevator, silly girl. Right. “Uh….no….not at all…” I struggled to not stammer, failing miserably and suddenly feeling a little insecure about my tousled appearance. “I’m just headed back up to the fifth floor.”
Did he even need to know that? Should it matter to him what floor I was staying on? Or was I just looking for something to say to the extremely good-looking, yet slightly inebriated British guy?
Short answer, probably so.
Some professional I was, huh? But in my own defense, I really couldn’t help myself when I saw him. This Paul character had been twenty times more handsome in person and living color than he’d been on that distorted old black and white television set in my hotel room.
“That’s fine then, ‘cause we’re up on the twentieth.” Paul responded to me and then turned to his shorter counterpart. “Isn’t that right, Ringo? It is twenty, isn’t it?”
Ringo? The Beatles' cute little drummer with the rather large nose?
I glanced at the man standing directly to Paul’s right, and sure enough!
“No, Paul. Twelfth. How many times have I got to tell you? It’s the twelfth floor.” Ringo quickly corrected his companion, then peeked around Paul to look at me. “You’ll have to excuse 'im, luv.” He tipped up a fake bottle and pretended to gulp from it. “A bit too much of the ol' chug-a-lug, you see.”
“Sherrup, Rings….really. You've room to talk!” Paul giggled and then started playfully slap boxing with his band’s drummer.
And to think that just a few moments before I’d been scared out of my wits that these guys might try something inappropriate and had made plans to attack them with a Coca-Cola bottle. But, of course, that was before I’d known they were Beatles. Once I’d recognized them, oddly enough, they seemed harmless as puppies.
Very cute, too. But I had a serious boyfriend upstairs on the fifth floor sleeping soundly, I kept reminding myself. So when the doors had been opened by our attendant, I’d stepped onto the elevator and politely told him which floor I'd wanted while watching him hold it open until Paul, Ringo and their small entourage of other friends-none of whom had looked familiar to me-had also entered.
“Doesn’t she remind you a bit of Jackie?” I’d heard Paul, standing directly behind me, ask someone.
“You mean Kennedy?” Ringo's deep voice had asked in return.
“No, you git! Jackie, you know. Bisset!”
“Ah! You mean that posh bird George brought round our flat that time? That one wants to be a model or summat’?”
“Yeah, that’s the one. The one John kept pawin’ all over.” Paul had sounded relieved that Ringo finally knew what he was talking about. “Well, doesn’t she then?”
“A lil’ bit I reckon, yeah. But prettier than Jackie, don’t you think?”
“Oh, yeah….” Paul had purred, his voice taking on a sort of deeply lecherous tone that oozed into my ear that made me feel warm and tingly inside. “Much.”
But I just remained calm and still, listening innocently, having no idea exactly what or who they were discussing, when I suddenly felt a ginger tap at the back of my left shoulder. I turned around just enough to gaze up into the most gorgeous pair of big brown eyes I’d ever seen on any guy...anywhere. Long curly black eyelashes. Pouty blushed little lips that almost looked feminine, but strangely inviting...and extremely soft....and much too close for comfort, too, but I couldn’t make myself move away, having already become slightly intoxicated by the subtle spicy scent of aftershave mingled with sweet-smelling liquor and cigarette smoke.
The Beatle, Paul. The one who's so much better-looking in person, and was standing way too close at the time to a girl with a steady boyfriend who was ignorantly and blissfully asleep on the fifth floor. My heart felt like it had leaped dead into my throat and frozen there. I couldn't even feel it beating...and it was a damn good thing that my life didn't depend upon the need to swallow or breath steadily at that moment.
“Yes?” I asked, trying my damnedest to remain cool as an icecube despite my inner goopiness.
“Pardon, luv…but you wouldn’t happen to be relation to an English bird named Jackie, by any chance, would you? 'Cause, I swear it, the two of you could be sisters.”
So, they’d been talking about me looking like this Jackie person? This one they referred to as a “bird” and had said was pretty, but I was even prettier than?
Me? Pretty? In a tattered yellow sweater with stray threads hanging from it's hem and hair pulled up into a sloppy ponytail? No make-up on? Me?
Was that how British men preferred their women to look?
My heart remained glued someplace in my throat, so much that I could barely find a voice to respond. “Nope. Afraid not.” I finally managed to rattle out. “I only have one sister and she lives in Boston....and only one relative in England that I know of, and that’s our aunt who relocated to London last year after her husband was stationed there. But that’s it.”
“Well, it’s very complimentary to you just the same, y'know….looking like Jackie, that is.” Ringo assured me good-naturedly, but without cracking a smile. “After all, she’s gonna be a model.”
Ding!
And after what had seemed like forever, or perhaps not long enough…the elevator bell had sounded to indicate time for its first stop and our operator opened its doors at the fifth floor.
My floor. Unfortunately.
“Well, thanks for the compliment, guys.” I'd smiled bashfully at them as I backed out into the corridor, cola bottle still clutched too tightly in my somewhat nervous hand. If I hadn’t held onto it for dear life, I was afraid I might’ve dropped it on the spot and made myself look more like some completely idiotic, bumbling, star-struck fan girl than a serious music columnist who might run into them again later…while on business.
But instead of the doors closing right away, I heard Paul speaking to what I assumed was the attendant, muttering, "Hold up, please? Thank you...." and then calling out into the hallyway behind me, “Uh, wait a minute! You’re leaving me? Already, luv? Just like that, aye?”
Despite my shock, I started to giggle at his unexpected antics and shrugged. “Well, this is my floor, you know.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s fine....fifth floor, yeah….” he smiled back at me, tilting the top part of his body through the opened doors even further to watch me as I began backing away from him. “But I never got to introduce meself to you properly!”
“That’s okay. I already know who you are.” I assured him, still giggling like some silly little school girl with a shameful crush.
And there went my hopeful attempt at the serious music columnist routine.
“Oh....wait…you do?” he looked puzzled for a second and then broke into a huge proud grin. “Oh, right….’course you do. We have been plastered all over telly here since yesterday. But I still don’t know your name.”
“Ah, Paulie! Come ‘ead. Let her go, man…it’s late!” I heard Ringo imploring him, and then their other companions began to laugh.
“Alright. Hurry then, luv, and tell me! 'Cause Rings is rushin’ me off…” Paul called out to me, putting on an exaggerated air of becoming desperate and clinging to the door frame as I was already a good three yards from the elevator by then, still giggling at him.
“Nicole.” I called back, feeling a lot more giddy than I knew I should have. But I couldn’t help it. He was absolutely adorable...even having been a little tipsy.
“Fantastic! Beautiful! Thank you, Nicole!” Paul chuckled as Ringo began tugging at his shoulders from behind. “And….hey, if you’re not too knackered, there’s a party hap’nin’ up on the twenti…I mean, twelfth floor! Right, Nicole? Just come on up and I’ll have them let you in!”
I didn’t know what ‘knackered’ meant at the time, but I was tempted to find that out and even more of the strange little words and phrases that would soon become of interest to millions of teen girls on American soil, thanks to four lads from Liverpool.
“Thank you, Paul!” I called to him again over the voices of his friends urging him to shut-up and pulling him back into the elevator….those sounds all fading as the doors finally closed and I found myself standing in the midst of a stilled silence.
It was at that point I also found myself faced with a sudden dilemma. A temptation, no doubt. Going up to the twelfth floor at two o’clock in the morning for a party that was apparently being attended by The Beatles themselves, or going back to my hotel room like a good little girl who had a boyfriend sleeping in a room next door and carrying on with my initial plans for the rest of the night.
I couldn’t possibly have interviewed them at the time, anyway. It had been late…and they’d been drinking. Anything they’d talked to me about would’ve had to be off the record because I'm a professional and wouldn’t have dreamed of invading their privacy that way.
Besides, what if I went to the party and discovered something that was just too tempting not to write about in my column?
And then there was also the very angry Steven I’d have to face in the morning if he found out I’d wandered off to the twelfth floor to party with a bunch of strange drunk musicians, Beatles or not.
Of course, I'd taken the good girl route. Maybe it was Pammy's unwanted influence. Damn her. Damn me. The safe route. That's what path I'd chosen. Going back to my room and not even thinking about seeing Paul again that night no matter how badly I'd wanted to. Hoping that perhaps I’d have the chance to see him the next day at the CBS Theater instead, when he was sober, and I was in a more rational state of mind myself.
So, on Sunday when Steven and I got word that The Beatles had already left The Plaza to head for CBS Theater 50 for rehearsals before their first US television appearance, we hailed a cab and headed down there ourselves shortly after noon. Spent a couple of hours taking pictures and interviewing the hordes of fans gathered around the place before I used my press pass to get us inside. When the guards let us through, after forcing me to remove the film from my camera, the crowds of girls started screaming at us like we’d suddenly sprouted mop-tops and morphed into Beatles ourselves.
“Say ‘hello’ to George for me!” shouted one.
“Please, tell Paul that I love him!” another sobbed to me as we were ushered inside.
The whole event was just incredible…and wild as all Hell
Unfortunately, I didn’t get to actually talk to any of the guys before the performance that day, because this nice but very businesslike young man with a British accent named Derek told us that they weren’t doing any more interviews by the time we’d gotten inside. But he told me to help myself as far as documenting the experience in writing or interviewing staff about 'the boys'.
We did, however, get to briefly speak to Mr. Sullivan, which was a thrill in itself. I asked him why the guards insisted on making me empty my camera and he explained that due to network union rules, the visual documentation had to be owned solely by CBS Television. I guess that’s understandable. Protection laws and rights for the network…and since Mr. Sullivan was kind enough to explain it to us, we had no choice but to adhere. I mean, he’s Ed Sullivan, for Christ’s sake. Who’s going to argue with him?
I can’t tell you how many times I’d dreamed about performing on his show, and I slyly reminded Steven of that in the great man’s presence, to which Mr. Sullivan asked if I would settle for an autograph instead of a booking for the time being.
My parents now have it framed and perched on the baby grand piano they inherited from Grandma Gabriel, by the way. That autograph even sufficed to them forgiving me for running off to NY at the last minute without any forewarning.
Mr. Sullivan also personally told Steve and I that he hoped we’d stick around to watch the show live, not that I’d intended to go anywhere once we’d made it safely inside the theater and away from the pandemonium outdoors, anyway.
We got seated up front, which was fortunate, because by the time security opened the doors for the fans to come flooding in, the chaos from outside was quickly unleashed inside. Thousands of still hysterical girls and boys, mostly girls, rushed into the theater, chattering excitedly, standing up in front of their seats and sobbing, chattering more…squealing…crying more.
I never thought I’d live to see girls crying through a theater announcer cueing television commercials about Anacin Pain-Reliever and Pillsbury Biscuits on his monitor. But they were so excited about this performance, I had to wonder what we were really in for once the show got underway. How good would their music be live? Radio was one thing…and the songs sounded fine. But that was done in a studio, with better acoustics and recording equipment that could enhance their sound.
Was it all really just a big hoax? Were The Beatles simply going to be a fad? A phase? Would the hopeful American fans be left disappointed afterwards and would these poor guys from Liverpool quietly slip out of our country to never be heard from again and melt into obscurity overseas?
Honestly, I hadn’t heard much about them prior to that weekend, and regardless how cute and charming I’d found a couple of them the previous night while waiting on that elevator back to the fifth floor, I still had to wonder what the American viewing public was in for. The most my editor even knew about them was that Jack Paar had shown some footage of them on a television spot during his show a month or so before, and even then had only used it as an example to comment on the sad state of teens reacting so outrageously to a mere music group.
How wrong Mr. Paar had been. This was no mere music group. Not just an ordinary band, and that was evident once the stage lights went up and Mr. Sullivan stepped out to announce his latest discovery.
After a brief introduction, he concluded with, “And now, Ladies and Gentlemen….The Beatles!” And if a thousand jet fighters had taken off at once, I don’t think the noise they’d cause could’ve been more deafening than the raucous screams that rose within the theater that night when four guys with shaggy hair and crisp dark suits took the stage.
I enthusiastically wrote my first column about The Beatles music during the drive back to Massachusetts from New York…and handed it over to my editor the next day before the press closed off for articles that would be printed on Tuesday.
Now, three weeks later, I'm about to embark on a journey that could very well be music history in the making; flying to England to formally meet and hopefully get to know more about this band I believe has the potential to change the face of rock-n-roll music as we know it today.