I have always been curious about what REALLY happened at this party. When John talks about the crazy touring in Australia, for some reason I think he is specifically thinking of this night.
Here's an account from a young female Australian journalist who attended the party
A rude behind-the-scenes awakening By Blanche d'Alpuget I WAS a 20-year-old reporter on The Dally Mirror in 1964 sent to interview the Beatles at a press conference when they arrived in Sydney. As everyone expected, the boys were funny and cute, with later-al-thinking answers to dumb ques-tions. The surprises for me came later when I was appointed - by the editor, I presume (I've forgotten those de-tails) - as one of the judges of a competition to choose a bunch of girls to attend Paul McCartney's 22nd birthday party. Some brilliant person at the Mirror - Brian Hogben, the news edi-tor, perhaps - got the idea of throwing a birthday party for Paul and providing the pretty girls to go with it. This was a publicity and sales coup, for to enter the competition one had to fill in a coupon cut from the newspaper and the Mirror got exclusive rights to photographs at the party. When my name was published as a judge, the shocks began. Immediately I was lobbied, then offered bribes. The father of a Beatle-mad daugh-ter, the owner of a well-known jewel-lery store, promised me an opal neck-lace, a ring and a bracelet if I would select his little darling for the party. Deeply shocked, I turned him down - and a lot of others. Meeting the Beatles in relaxing mode was something else again. I must say that the party, which I attended as a kind of chaperone/reporter, was terrific fun with lots of dancing and whisky and a birthday cake with cand-les. I had to make sure that the girls did not get drunk or come to other harm - which some of them were intent on coming to - for the newspaper had undertaken to return them in one piece to their parents by about 11pm. I had not yet been to England and was unaware of the cruelty of the English class system, how it seems to stain the souls of those it touches, so that all but the most noble or eccentric have an edge of narkiness to them; something shop-soiled and common in their natures. The sunshine and salt water of Sydney in which I'd been reared gave me no warning of the damage grey skies and bad food can do; how peevish people become from it. That was my overwhelming impression of the Beatles after observing them at play for five or six hours: that running through the jokes and tri-umph, there was a seam of narkiness that was pure English and foreign. At least two - John and Ringo - were also very rough and tough. John, In particular, I thought was a beast after that night (I don't dispute he was clever and became adorable as he got older). Back in 1964, his most used adjective was "fookin" almost every noun was preceded by it. During the birthday party an uninvited photographer slid past security and tried to take snaps. John and one of the roadies caught him, f marched him into the men's lavat and banged his fookin head on a to bowl before throwing him out. I kr of this because Lennon boasted ab it to me and some others who tried find out what was going on with limp and wet-looking photographer My other vivid memory of that e ning was of Ringo saying loudly t sweet young thing who asked him his autograph: "Coom oopstairs, I an ay'll wrayte it rayt across stomach." He left us in doubt " what. It's always a mistake to meet author: the song, the music, the por the book seems always so far fi than the human being behind it. T was certainly my experience of 1 Liverpool lads. In the flesh, they w lookin louts. Does that matter? Not at all. Fo mouthed, narky, peevish young ! maniacs they were ... but the mu The music. Their music lives in bones.
Booze, sex, and rock and roil.
ReplyDeleteHere's an account from a young female Australian journalist who attended the party
ReplyDeleteA rude behind-the-scenes awakening
By Blanche d'Alpuget
I WAS a 20-year-old reporter on The Dally Mirror in 1964 sent to interview the Beatles at a press conference when they arrived in Sydney. As everyone expected, the boys were funny and cute, with later-al-thinking answers to dumb ques-tions.
The surprises for me came later when I was appointed - by the editor, I presume (I've forgotten those de-tails) - as one of the judges of a competition to choose a bunch of girls to attend Paul McCartney's 22nd birthday party. Some brilliant person at the Mirror - Brian Hogben, the news edi-tor, perhaps - got the idea of throwing a birthday party for Paul and providing the pretty girls to go with it.
This was a publicity and sales coup, for to enter the competition one had to fill in a coupon cut from the newspaper and the Mirror got exclusive rights to photographs at the party.
When my name was published as a judge, the shocks began.
Immediately I was lobbied, then offered bribes.
The father of a Beatle-mad daugh-ter, the owner of a well-known jewel-lery store, promised me an opal neck-lace, a ring and a bracelet if I would select his little darling for the party.
Deeply shocked, I turned him down - and a lot of others.
Meeting the Beatles in relaxing mode was something else again. I must say that the party, which I attended as a kind of chaperone/reporter, was terrific fun with lots of dancing and whisky and a birthday cake with cand-les. I had to make sure that the girls did not get drunk or come to other harm - which some of them were intent on coming to - for the newspaper had undertaken to return them in one piece to their parents by about 11pm.
I had not yet been to England and was unaware of the cruelty of the English class system, how it seems to stain the souls of those it touches, so that all but the most noble or eccentric have an edge of narkiness to them;
something shop-soiled and common in their natures. The sunshine and salt water of Sydney in which I'd been reared gave me no warning of the damage grey skies and bad food can do; how peevish people become from it.
That was my overwhelming impression of the Beatles after observing them at play for five or six hours: that running through the jokes and tri-umph, there was a seam of narkiness that was pure English and foreign. At least two - John and Ringo - were also very rough and tough.
John, In particular, I thought was a beast after that night (I don't dispute he was clever and became adorable as he got older). Back in 1964, his most used adjective was "fookin" almost every noun was preceded by it.
During the birthday party an uninvited photographer slid past security and tried to take snaps. John and one of the roadies caught him, f marched him into the men's lavat and banged his fookin head on a to bowl before throwing him out. I kr of this because Lennon boasted ab it to me and some others who tried find out what was going on with limp and wet-looking photographer My other vivid memory of that e ning was of Ringo saying loudly t sweet young thing who asked him his autograph: "Coom oopstairs, I an ay'll wrayte it rayt across stomach." He left us in doubt " what.
It's always a mistake to meet author: the song, the music, the por the book seems always so far fi than the human being behind it. T was certainly my experience of 1 Liverpool lads. In the flesh, they w lookin louts.
Does that matter? Not at all. Fo mouthed, narky, peevish young ! maniacs they were ... but the mu The music. Their music lives in bones.