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Ringo with the author, Naomi and Joan |
by Naomi Marcus
The San Francisco Examiner
August 11, 1991
Although I dined out on this story for years (and more than once, was accused of being a pathetic liar), I gradually forgot about it. So the memory came back nearly new and sharp when I looked at a calendar. I mentioned to a friend that this August 11[sic] will be the 25th anniversary of the day I met the Beatles and danced with Ranco at Candlestick Park. "You met the Beatles?" marveled my friend, "you never told me about it." For him and any others I may have missed, here's how it happened in 1966.
I was 10 years old, a pragmatic fifth grader. I liked John best. I didn't hang posters or collect Beatle junk or sigh over their pictures, but I knew the words to all their songs. I loved them, but I was cool.
I had no more thought of trying to get to their San Francisco concert from my Big Sur home than I would have of flapping my arms and flying to the moon. But that July, Joan Baez, a family friend and neighbor for several years, called me with a jolting invitation. She was traveling with the Beatles. She had a ticket for me to the Candlestick concert, and as a special treat, "you'll probably get to meet them."
I suffered two harrowing days while my parents debated the wisdom of letting me go off on such a lunatic venture. (My father's words) I stamped my foot, raged and pleaded, and eventually convinced them. Another big deal: what do you wear when you go to meet the Beatles? I opted for paisleys (very Merry Quant), a green Paisley suit, and cherry red patent leather shoes.
Joan's sister, Pauline, and brother-in-law, Peyton, picked me up for the drive to San Francisco. The concert was in the evening, and we arrived at Candlestick in the late afternoon. I remember an unending series of checkpoints, which began when we parked and saw a very large policeman. "You guys, the Baez party, this way, please." Our little group was passed from checkpoint to checkpoint like a baton. "The Baez party, yes, they're expecting you." The stadium was reverberating, already nearly full, as we were led down flights and flights of steps down to the field and past the stage. Envious fans in the lower rows yelled as we were escorted past them, "Bring me back Paul's hand, "Bring me back a lock of George's hair," "Oh god, oh God, take me with you!" I kept my eyes on the ground. I couldn't breathe.
We crossed the field, turned into the dugout, and went through an odd-shaped, low door into a maze, avoiding passageways and corridors. I felt curiouser and curiouser, like Alice. Then," boom" around the bend into a loud, crowded room lined with cubicles, and John Lennon stood, pale and bored. He was impatiently answering a reporter's questions, holding a sneaker in one hand and banging it rhythmically against his other palm. So cool.
Joan swept us up, gathered me to her and, circled the room, introduced me to each member of the band. I was the only kid in the place. John was surrounded but managed a wave. "Hullo." Ringo took my hand gravely and said, "How do you do?" Paul Tossed the Paul grin my way. "Are you Joan's little sister?"
Then my eyes were two pinwheels as flash bulbs popped, I watched the choreographed ease with which the Fab Four draped themselves around every local VIP who wanted a picture taken. Then it hit me with a dull shock, "Joan," I said plaintively, "no one at school will believe me." She grabbed Ringo and a photographer, and we barely got our picture taken before it was announced that everyone had to leave so the Beatles could dress for their performances. Joan rushed me into a changing cubicle and said, "Shhhhh. We can hide here." I didn't think I could handle watching the Beatles change clothes. I mean, I was only 10. To my relief, someone found us and shooed us out.
The press was filing out to the performance area, but we waited in another room where the guitars were set up. I sat on the edge of a long banquet table that was littered with a feast of leftovers. John's pen and ink doodles were all over the white tablecloth, and I saw some of the journalists serendipitously tearing off pieces as they left.
Then the Beatles appeared, dressed in black suits and boots, and idly began to run through some songs. Ringo's drums weren't set up, so he came over to me and held up his hand. "Would you like one of my rings? Now, this is a nice one. It's a whistle ring." He slipped it off his finger, blew on it, and hummed pleasantly. He dropped it into my palm while his three mates strummed and sang. He took my hand and helped me jump down. We danced to one song. I racked my brain trying to remember which song, but I was dancing so hard I don't think I heard anything at all.
Later, Joan slipped into the back room and returned with the shirt John had just been wearing. "Here, " she smiled, "another keepsake." He saw, and he winked. John Lennon was about to sing for a million hysterical people, and he winked at me. So, who are you? Really? Not her sister? Now? Are you?"
Presently, they slung their guitars over their shoulders, and we all were escorted through the maze toward the stage. I watched Ringo, my new favorite, make a wrong turn and head away from our procession. I uttered my one word for the night," Hey...," and he turned around, grinning sheepishly. They looked like a chain gang as they trudged single file along the corridor, adjusting guitar straps and jacket cuffs. Just going to work. It seemed sad and tedious, another stop on their long and winding road. But as it turned out, it was the end of the journey. After the Candlestick show, The Beatles never performed together on stage.
When we emerged onto the field, the band clambered up the stairs and hit the stage running. We positioned ourselves below them, leaning against the platform on which the stage was built, spotlights dipped and whizzed around. People were leaping from their seats, rushing the stage like kamikaze pilots, and bulky policemen were thudding into them and carting them off. It was a great spectacle. The music began drowning and deafening me. The rhythm was all over us. Cake boxes with whole cakes in them landed near us, followed by stuffed animals, candy, and jelly beans. Joan held me and shielded me with her arms. "Oh my god." I remember her saying, "Your father's going to kill me!"
Two hours passed in a roar. I don't remember how we left the stadium or how I got in the car. I remember falling asleep in Joan's perfumed lap with John Lennon's sweaty shirt tucked around me as we sailed down 101 in her cozy black Jaguar, going home.
interesting
ReplyDeleteThe music was “drowning and deafening”?
ReplyDeleteEven that close, I doubt that three amps were drowning and deafening.
Suspicions.
I was one of the amps and we were absolutely “drowning and deafening”
ReplyDelete