I Met The Beatles and Lived to Tell About It

 It has been my belief that the Beatles' 1965 San Francisco concerts were their most dangerous. Reading this first-hand account from an adult who was there covering the concert for a newspaper really showed how dangerous (but fun) it truly was.

 I Met the Beatles and Lived to Tell About it

Written by Wally Trabing

Santa Cruz Sentinel

May 31, 1994

Cow Palace, San Francisco.

     I'm writing this from notes frantically scrawled in the press section at stage side during a matinee performance of The Beatles. There is complete maelstrom and madness about me, a wall of teenagers press against my back. The tears of hysteria have made my sweater sleeve wet near the elbow. The heat of young girls surging to get at the singers is stifling. The screaming of 11,400 youngsters, a noise of such a magnitude I have never before experienced, has turned the Beatles into plain puppets.

     I am four yards from the band and can only see their mouths open and shut and hear an occasional thump from Ringo's drum during the whole performance, of some 12 numbers. I will not be able to hear one word. There are several bodies on stage, girls overcome and hauled there by police to protect them from being crushed.

    Before they came on. Don Mullen of United Press International and I were planning routes of escape if things got out of hand, and we lifted the curtain in front of the stage. Whoo. It was solid wood. We were trapped. 

    Every move, which might mean the Beatles are coming on stage, caused pandemonium. A workman walked through the entryway, set off a roar unequaled by the greatest 49ers touchdown. When they entered, shaggy-haired and thin-bodied, a close-knit, high-vibrated wall screen began and never subsided until they left.

     Police tried to keep them at least 10 feet from the stage, but after the first number, their line weakened, and we were forced against the stage. One officer went down and had to be carried out bodily.  I saw Bob Lindsey of the Mercury News fighting to keep his feet, his face a twisted grimace amid a mass of squirming girls. I was hit with jelly beans and climbed on, and one girl went between my legs and clawed up on the stage. She got to Paul before officers tore her away and carried her off; she had thrown her arms around him and then hesitated, not knowing what to do. Paul was not bothered. 

    The police linked arms and leaned against the tide. Once I was included in the chain, we leaned back at a 45-degree angle and were pushed upright again, inch by inch. 

    The Beatles seemed calm enough. They continued their music. I like their "yellow submarine", and "I want to hold your hand."  But they could have been singing."I've been working on the railroad" and "Old MacDonald", and no one would have known the difference. 

    When George would turn his head slightly toward one section of the huge auditorium, it would set off a wave of screams which rolled over the general den. Two men crouched on stage to throw back those who managed to reach the top. One kid jumped or was bodily hurled back into the crowd.

     I turned around to face the crowd to study their faces. Most were crying in a beseeching manner. Some held up Beatles' photos transfixed as if showing their loyalty. Others waved frantically in an absurd effort to get attention, a glance. Some just stood and screamed and screamed. It was kind of a weird game. 

    The police were not rough. If a youngster fell, an officer would pick her up and sort of place her back in the scrimmage. Several times. The young girls caught me looking at them. They would stop crying, and give a shy smile as if to say, don't worry. This is fun. They returned to being hysterical. This seemed to be a clue to the whole affair. 

    Jelly Beans rained on the stage (once they mentioned they liked them,) as did shoes, hats, flowers, and teddy bears. I think seven or eight rows back, the hysteria was not so pronounced.  Near me, a young girl, hardly nine, was being crushed among the taller kids, and I dragged her out and stood her on a handy chair. I thought she would be ecstatic, but she jumped down and returned to the screaming crush.

     Toward the sixth number, the crush was so pressured at the stage that the youngsters behind us were fainting; we passed the limp ones to the police, who laid them out on stage. I counted 15 bodies at one point.

     The Beatles were knee-deep in prone girls, eyes rolling, their bodies sweating, and their clothing rumpled. The Beatles played on at $1,700 a minute for this half-hour of uninhibited screaming. The kids and other folks paid $7.50 per ticket.

     So what was wrong with that? There was no fighting or mobbing. A few were overcome emotionally and had to be smell salted back to reality. But for my part, I say it was great for the kids. Few times in their young lives did they get a chance to cut loose like this, and like they say, who cares if they did not hear a note? They all knew the music beforehand anyway. 

    The Beatles are a light-hearted, jaunty group that does not seem to take themselves seriously. They spend their pre-performance time in a large trailer behind the stage, watching a TV Western. The area was heavily guarded, but Paul McCartney wandered over toward me, and  I casually mentioned that I enjoyed their homeland. He paused to chat, and I ended up being invited into their mobile unit so he could find a paper to autograph.

At the press conference, they sat on a table, swinging their legs, and said, "Yes, they're often physically afraid when the mob surges forward." Then it was over. I felt sad that I was here, and my kids were at home; it should have been the other way around.