Here is a piece written by Holly Price for McCartney Ltd. in 1976. It is interesting and a little thought provoking. It is written a little bit too "far out" for my tastes, but I understand where Holly is coming from.
Things as they are as a dream
By Holly Price
McCartney Ltd.
July/August 1976
Okay folks, own
up. How many of us still wear our
watches on the right hand? I still do—I’m
just too used to it to switch! And no,
I’m not left handed; although in 8th grade I launched a campaign to
become so. You might say I was
insane. I spent hours writing with my
left hand because he did. What one will
do for love! I recently found the script
of A Hard Day’s night and realized I had sat down with a cassette tape of the
film and transcribed each word onto paper!
And not so many years age, either.
I remember meeting John.
He was in Philadelphia for a month to tape the Mike Douglas show. I came to each taping, cutting Algebra II and
ended up flunking the class. I stood
next to him and my mind was numb with trying to realize – yes---here he is,
John Lennon! Say something, stupid, this
doesn’t happen every day! But I couldn’t
think of anything to say.
I saw George and Ringo at Madison Square Garden, the Bangladesh
Concert, about two miles from the stage (or so it seemed). I stayed glued to binoculars and my arms were
cramped for hours afterwards. I got up
at one point to take pictures and found that my knees seemed to have turned to
water.
 |
| Arriving at the premiere of "Live and Let Die" July 5, 1973 |
And—of course—Paul.
Finally made my way to England, telling myself it was over, I didn’t
care. Sure I’d go and see his house, why
not, I practically bought it! Beth and I ventured to St. John’s Wood and were
told by Rose that the next day he would be leaving around 5 o’clock for the
Live and Let Die premiere. This was
1973, he’d just finished the British tour and the papers were all full of
stories about how nice he’d been to the fans.
Well, we came back the next day and it was all grey and rainy,
naturally. We saw Denny Siewell and
Denny Laine go inside and Linda got on the intercom and told us to leave, “It’s
a private home.” We didn’t leave. (Did she really expect us to?). At one point, through the half open gate, I
saw Mary on the steps in a little white nightgown and nearly fainted. “Hold on, it’s only Mary. You’ve still got Paul to content with,” said my
objective side. However, must have
decided to spare me that. They got in a
chauffeur driven car inside the gate and drove out. Someone got out to close th gate and I saw
him talking and laughing through the smoked glass window. He never turned around. Linda did, thought and she and I indulged in
a sarcastic waving session. “Have a good
time!” I yelled. “Thank you!” she called
back. He never looked at me.
Seeing a Beatle is a strange thing because, instead of
reading about Paul going to the premiere there I was watching him leave for
it. I had made myself a part of the
legend. Although our realities were
completely different, we shared the same reality and were part of each others
lives. I had woven myself into his life
after years of him weaving into mine. I
was there. For once, and maybe never
again, we shared the same moment. What I
remember most is the wait. Seeing him
lasted on a few minutes. It all came
down to waiting at that gate, teeth clenched, heart beating fast, mouth
dry. Our time meets theirs. We really are in the same world.
They mean so much to me.
It’s frightening to realize it.
Why should they? Music is music,
right? I like Bob Dylan, Joan Baez, the
Rolling Stones; but they aren’t in my blood.
Beatlemania—if it can still be called that is love once removed. Knowing the Beatles and knowing the Beatles
sounds quite similar when in actuality it is light years apart. We may know hobbies, addresses, birthdays,
shoe sizes even, but we don’t know THEM.
Not knowing them puts us in a very strange position. Do we love the image? The vibrations? The music?
Or the man? It is a hard and
painful question to ask, let alone answer.
I suppose there really are no explanations. There is a fondness and a glow when I hear
them on the radio. The flow will always
remain. Even when I’m 83 I’ll probably still catch my breath at the thought of “The
Fool on the Hill” sequence in Magical Mystery Tour. And for sure it isn’t over, because something
like that doesn’t end. If it ends, then
I’ll know it never began.
