In what could be included in my "strange but true" Beatles facts series -- there was a reporter for the Liverpool Echo who traveled to the United States with the Beatles and wrote articles for the newspaper about his experience, who just happened to be named George Harrison. Now, what are the chances of that? Sure, George is a common first name and Harrison is a common last name, but still -- what are the chances that a man named George Harrison who is from Liverpool was assigned to travel with and write about a band from Liverpool that has a lead guitarist with the exact same name!
The reporter, George Harrison, wrote some excellent reports about his time with the Fab Four, and I will be sharing them over the next week. I really love them because I am fascinated with the first U.S. visit, and any new nugget of information excites me. Mr. Harrison includes a few little items that were news to me.
Life with the Beatles
The Best Since Bob Hope!
By George Harrison
Liverpool Echo
February 25, 1964
Through the screams, squeals, and rhapsodies of adulation which greeted Liverpool's mop-haired ambassadors, those bouncing Beatles, wherever they appeared in the United States, there merged one quiet but so sincere welcome that to me is unforgettable.
It was a message from an American girl who wrote to the boys in Washington, the nation's capital. Because she had addressed it to Mr. George Harrison, Shoreham Hotel, Washington, DC, where I, too, was registered, the letter was placed among others in my rack, and I opened it. The girl had intended it for George Harrison of The Beatles, also staying that night at the Shoreham. And she wrote: "Thank you, Beatles, for bringing to this country of mine its first real happiness since November 22, when we went into mourning."
It was on November 22 that President Kennedy had been assassinated. Somehow, that short, moving little note put a finger firmly upon one of the reasons for the fantastic success which the boys from Liverpool enjoyed in America for 10 weeks. Before their arrival, there had been that dark cloud of nationwide sadness, obliterating the sunshine.
Restlessly, the youngsters of America waited for the cloud to lift or for some light to break through it. On December 26, after a whirlwind sales and publicity drive in New York, by Beatles manager Brian Epstein, 29, who coaxed Capitol Recording Company into launching the boys' British number one hit disc, "I Want to Hold Your Hand", that number was released in the United States.
It had been played here and there by American disc jockeys during the fortnight previous, for copies had been taken from England by Brian Epstein and given to the DJs for introduction purposes. Not until the day after Christmas, Boxing Day as we know it, is not a holiday in the States, did the recording reach the shops and stores. The moment it did, American youth, particularly the girls, welcomed it passionately as the relief for which they had been waiting so long, their first real happiness since November 22 .
From then on, every news story from England about the Beatles was lapped up by the kids. Lapel badges exclaiming, "I love the Beatles" flooded the shops, and the girls bought them, and 10s of 1000s wearing them proudly.
Within 48 hours of "I Want to Hold Your Hand" hitting the market, there wasn't a radio station in the country that was not firmly on the bandwagon of "Be with it. Be with The Beatles." Articles about the Liverpool quartet, how they began, what they were like, with pictures, appeared in every newspaper and magazine. In two weeks, "I Want to Hold Your Hand" had swept to number one in the United States record ratings. A week later, it topped 2,000,000 in sales. When I left New York with the Beatles last Friday night, it was on the way toward its fourth million, all in seven weeks.
Meanwhile, popular Ed Sullivan, shrewd American television showman and spotter of unusual acts likely to cause a fervor, had seen the light which was illuminating the faces of all the young folk of his country. He offered the Beatles a contract for three consecutive TV appearances on The Ed Sullivan Show. Brian Eptein agreed, provided the boys received top billing. It took Brian two days to get his way, but he did.
Immediately, the booking was confirmed, and the newspapers had announced that "The Beatles are coming to America.!" That strange epidemic called Beatlemania crossed the Atlantic from England and hit the United States like a bomb. It was greater than the fever over Elvis Presley back in the 50s, and by comparison with it, Frank Sinatra's era of swooning fans resembled a Sunday afternoon picnic.
Britain had already experienced the force of this ecstatic affection for the cheerful Liverpool, foursome in a dozen cities. We weren't aware that cynical New York was still quite unprepared for it, despite the warning example of our country.
Yet before the plane carrying the Beatles party, including me, left London Airport on February 7 for New York we knew that Ed Sullivan had received more than 50,000 requests for seats for their first show on Sunday, February 9, although the television studio couldn't take more than 750.
How did the boys react to the rather frightened prospects of taking on American audiences? Ringo Starr, whose dry humor enlivens in every situation -- somehow he comes out with a crack that can instantly lift any tension there may be among the lads-- said to me, "I can always go back to hairdressing if they kick us out."
Then, looking across the aisle at Paul McCartney and George Harrison, he said with a grin, "What are you Tin Pan Alley merchants going to do? Write operas?"
They're a zany bunch to travel with, and you never know what's going to happen next with them. They take the mickey out of everybody and everything, but most of all, out of themselves and each other. There is a tremendous spirit of "All for one and one for all" among them.
That's why the fearsome barrage of questions flung at them by American high-power pressmen never even singed their hair. What one couldn't answer, another one could. They take everything with a chuckle. Sure, they lose tempers once in a while, but never for long, I found.
And so our great giant jet sailed serenely at 500 odd miles an hour across the ocean. Paul McCartney fell asleep. Ringo wandered around talking to other passengers. John Lennon and his enchanting young wife, Cynthia, sat together and dozed or talked quietly to themselves. They're obviously very much in love.
George Jr decided he felt scruffy as he hadn't shaved. He went to the toilet to freshen up. A few minutes later, the captain of the aircraft told us over the speakers, "We're going to run into slight turbulence. Will you please fasten your seat belts? " We did, and a good job too. For that slight turbulence, tossed the huge aircraft up and down like a yo-yo. Out of the toilet emerged George, his face half covered with lather, a safety razor in hand. "What the hell is happening?" He yelled, paler than usual. "I nearly cut my so and so head off in there!" John Lennon said it wouldn't matter. "You could always use the other one you carry under your arm for haunting purposes."
Brian Epstein sat quietly reading or talking with us during most of the six and a half hour flight. He was the only member of the entire party who had no doubts at all about the reception awaiting the Beatles in New York. He and I knew fully well that despite their quips and apparent ease, the boys were anxious deep down about their welcome. Even the hard-shelled Ringo had asked me in a quiet aside, "How do you think we'll go over there, George? They've got everything like, haven't they? Will they want us?"
Brian Epstein had no such qualms. He told me with confidence, "You will see a welcome that will make your eyes pop. I bet the boys have never known anything like it. Just wait and judge for yourself." You could almost feel the tension mounting as the hostess on the plane announced that we would be landing in New York in 10 minutes. The other passengers in our first-class section, most of them American businessmen, had tried hard to set the Beatles at ease with the assurance that they would have a great time in the States. And I don't think one of them or the aircraft crew missed the opportunity of getting the autographs of the boys and their photographs, too.
A millionaire from Philadelphia, returning from business in Paris, said to me, "These kids have no need to worry about the reception. They're the most natural bunch of born entertainers I've come across. They will go down big", then he chuckled. "I sure wish they were coming to Philly. My two teenage daughters would go like crazy. They will anyway, when I get home and tell them I've been with the Beatles. "
The plane began to lose height over New York and started the long gliding descent to newly renamed John F Kennedy International Airport, which used to be called Idlewild. As it touched down and swung to taxi toward the airport center, Paul McCartney called out, "Fingers crossed, everybody those without fingers just wish." Then, from the window on my side of the aircraft, I could see them. 1000s of dark shadows outlined against the sky from the top airport concourse. The line, packed deep, ran right around the building.
John Lennon, sitting right behind me, saw them, too. "Wow!" He yelled, "Take a look at this lot. It looks like they want us here after all." He brought out his new camera and began shooting the waving, massed reception committee. We couldn't hear anything from outside, bar the noise of the motors, but we could see mouths open wide as the kids cheered and shouted their welcome.
Below us, by the spot we were pulled into, there was a sea of cameramen from newsreels, television, and newspapers. The aircraft came to a standstill. Somebody said, "Please don't disembark until you have permission to do so." A door opened. Uniformed airport officials walked in, accompanied by police armed with guns and gloves. Paul said to me, "They look tough, don't they?" Before I could do more than nod, the cops produced bits of paper and were saying, "You boys, please give us your autographs". One of the policemen said, "yous," which is Brooklynese around New York. George Jr spotted it and cracked, but he's from the Pool.
There was a jam of passengers inside as the folks outside tried to force their way in. Suddenly, the plane seemed full of cameramen. The police started hustling them off, saying, "Let the passengers out first, plenty of time for pictures." Howls of protest went up from the lens hawks who had managed to get a foothold, but somehow they were cleared. Then we waited until the rest of the passengers had got away.
The Beatles had lost their nervousness when they saw the crowd awaiting them. Paul said to me, "Go on, George, get out first and pave the way. If they don't shoot you, we know we'll be okay." So I picked up my grip and emerged on top of the companion-way leading down the steps to the enclosure where the cameramen were standing. As I hit the sunlight, so the stupendous, ear-splitting, high-pitched scream of the youngsters hit me. It was like a great wave of sound crashing in from all directions. The kids knew the Beatles were coming, and they went to town with a yell that was heard by residents a mile away, I learned afterwards.
Cynthia Lennon, the wife of John, slipped unnoticed down behind me. The lads came down the steps, and it was not really until that moment that New York realized just what it was going to face up to in the next week. While Liverpool's long-haired Beatles were guests at its most staid, luxurious, exclusive Plaza Hotel, where Fifth Avenue ends at Central Park and handsome cabs still ply for hire, a milling mass of 1000s hemmmed-back back behind wire and steel barricades by revolver-armed police screaming their heads off.
While airport officials shepherded us through customs into a VIP lounge where 200 people had been waiting. Sweating policemen told me, "This is the worst, even worse than when Khruschev came or even Fidel Castro. They were bad enough for us, But this, -- this we never expected."
Tears poured from the girls' eyes as they pleaded, "Let's just get near them enough to see them. We waited here for 10 hours." Two kids that I smuggled past a barrier with me reached a window and watched with glistening eyes as the Beatles got on to the floodlit stage to face their first American press and television conference. Just what the Americans expected to happen at that chaotic conference, I don't know.
I stood at one side of the stage as the boys laughed their way through the series of questions, which they refused to take seriously. "Why don't you get your hair cut?" "We just had it specially cut yesterday. You should have seen it before." "Do you like what you've seen of America?" "Yes, do you?" "Do you think it's right that 1000s of children should play hooky from school just to be here to welcome you?" "You mean they haven't been given a holiday today?" So it went on with the newsmen and women who had obviously started off intending to give the Beatles their own particular taste of hell, slowly coming around to an admiration for them.
And when it was all over and we were safely in the plush luxury of the Plaza Hotel, John Lennon said to me, "Those press folks were marvelous. It was like playing to an audience who appreciated you, I reckon we'll do all right here."
The comment of one of the New York newspaper writers was. "They're the best act we've had to interview since Bob Hope."
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