When I looked to see if I could find the date of this happening, I discovered that the author was incorrect, and it did not happen in the 70s, but in 1968 when Paul was working on the song "Thingumybob." The entire interview was shown regionally and wiped afterward, making this lost Beatles media.
Beatlemania: A Look Back to Heady DAys of the Sixties
By Tony Cliff
Clitheroe Advertiser and Times
May 30, 1996
I never met the Beatles as a band, just Paul McCartney on a baking summer afternoon in Bradford, which turned out to be a life-altering experience.
At the time, I was working as studio director of the Yorkshire version of "Look North West." It was the early 70s when people like me were just catching up with the 60s. It was a heat wave.
A Sunday afternoon, I had hay fever, and the phone rang. Our young cameraman was a brilliant ex-newspaper photographer who has since gone on to produce a string of distinguished TV documentaries. In six months, he had learned the intricacies of shooting moving pictures. Now, he was hunting stories on which to practice his new skills.
He said, "I'm sitting in a car park outside the biggest hotel in Bradford with a camera set up on Paul McCartney, a bunch of girl fans and his dog. I have phoned every reporter who has ever held a microphone in the West Riding, and none of them are home. You are the only BBC employee in the world who hasn't got something to do on a Sunday afternoon. Let me fill this gap in your sad life, please get over here. Half an hour ago."
I went, sneezing . As I fell out of the car, there was the man, the girls, and the largest Old English Sheepdog I have ever seen. My cameraman colleague passed me the microphone as I walked up and said, "Get some level for sound."
I said something inane to the star. The star cracked a joke. The girls collapsed with laughter. I collapsed with laughter. The cameraman said he was running, and we were off. It was probably one of the most unprofessional interviews on which the BBC has exposed film. McCartney was genuinely witty, and I laughed along with everyone else as he set me up for 10 minutes. Only the dog had a straight face and she was asleep.
Afterwards, we had a cup of tea, and I got to meet Martha, my previously dozing audience. I went home to a decent sneeze and the resigned feeling there might be 45 seconds in the interview, which could be salvaged for the local news.
The next day, every senior BBC journalist in the country was in Leeds for a conference. It was a light news day, and my editor thought McCartney was a riot. He broadcast the entire 10 minutes uncut, every sneezing, giggling, hopeless, funny second of it.
His senior colleagues, who constituted my entire field of likely future employment, thought it was hilarious, too. So that is where my future as Leeds answer to a late Robin Day or an early Jeremy Paxman ground to a halt.
It was a mercy, really. Paul McCartney saved me from dreams of a career in front of the cameras instead of behind them. They would only have been dreams. If I had been going to make a real television reporter, I would have got to Paul McCartney before the cameraman did. I would probably have been interviewing Martha by the time he got there.
No comments:
Post a Comment