The Beatles Story (Part 2 by Tony Barrow 1981)

 

The Beatles Story (Part 2)

By Tony Barrow

Liverpool Echo

October 29, 1981

    Ringo Starr was the least affected by the unique pressures of Beatlemania. He was the least complicated character. His role as a Beatle was often as an observer rather than an orator. He stayed out of many group discussions, aware that he was only the co-opted Beatle, a late arrival who joined the founding trio. 

    Childhood ill health had stunted Ringo's education. He felt academically inferior. He put up an old classroom defense of silence. For a time, there was the extra embarrassment of knowing that his predecessor with the Beatles had enjoyed considerable popularity. More than a few fans resented the sacking of Pete Best. 

    Ringo came out with some remarkable punchline comments to punctuate the group's conversations; one of these, "A Hard Day's Night," became not only a song but a film title. Another, "Tomorrow Never Knows," was also made into a song. My own favorite was "We're Not Mods or Rockers, We're Just Mockers." 

`On one occasion, a lot of celebrated names went on public record as pro-pot petitioners by taking an unprecedented full-page advertisement in The Times. Before it appeared in print, the rest of the press caught wind of the project, and reporters rang me to query the Beatles' participation. "Our information is that John, Paul, and George are signing, but Ringo's name is missing. Is there a split in the group over the pot-smoking question?"

     I put the point to a surprised Ringo, who stared back blankly. "What advert?" He exclaimed. "Nobody told me anything about it." Typically, Ringo was the last to learn about things. 

    He would have loved to emerge as a country and western singer later on, but he lacked the necessary vocal talent to survive as a solo performer. In any case, typecast as a Beatles drummer, he would have found it hard to claim credibility as a Nashville singer. 

    He remained placidly even-tempered. By nature, he was undemanding, kind, and friendly; fans felt sorry for him and rallied with songs like "Ringo for President." It was not necessary. Ringo was not a sad person. His face was molded into a deceptively unhappy expression until he made the muscles move into a deliberate smile. 

    The most obvious change in Ringo stemmed from his discovery that there would not be a lot for him to do without the Beatles. He used to be content with his drumming job, clear of the main stage spotlight. He would sit alone in an artificial twilight, raised up high on his rostrum, above and beyond the group's three stand-up frontmen.

     I rate Ringo second only to Paul in wanting to remain a public entertainer. He is the only Beatle who might fancy turning back the clock to the high noon of the four mop tops and doing it all again. 

    Today, I imagine Ringo is reasonably rich, but professionally frustrated.

    George Harrison was the first of the Fab Four to condemn the group's on-tour stage work, when he reckoned it had become pointless. In contrast to Ringo, he openly feared the panic and perils of traveling the earth as a pop star superstar. George hated all the hysteria which went with Beatlemania; he grudged each gross invasion of his privacy. He rebelled against the claustrophobic security restrictions and the squalid dressing room conditions. Most of all, George despised the artlessness of concert performances where bum notes no longer mattered because even well-tuned sounds went unheard.

     It was quite different in the recording studio. Here, the music-making mattered once more. Here, George could flourish creatively. He would polish his guitar frames painstakingly and pluck their strings into tune a dozen times a day. He made a serious vocation of expanding his music knowledge.

     The George Harrison I got to know well in 1963 was easy to befriend. He was chummy, chatty, good-humored, homely. He had a flair for not only remembering names but for sounding genuinely interested in the lives of those around him.

    For a time George let the focus of Beatlemania bash about his head, tolerating the blast and turning the other cheek. Then, without warning, the tension became too much. The least thick-skinned of the four blew his top. He started, trivially enough, with a nasty little incident in Paris: George chucked a glass of ice-cold breakfast juice over a PR aide. It was an act of mild despair rather than premeditated malice. But from that point on, I watched the youngest Beatle adopt a decreasingly happy-go-care-free approach to the business of being a pop celebrity.

     "The Beatles is not the living end, is it?" He decided, putting his career and the rest of his life in new perspective. He compensated, to his own satisfaction, by cultivating a deep, delving interest in the cultures of the East. As a spokesman for the Beatles, he became less useful to me, unless I put him with a journalist who wanted to talk studiously about musical technique. I risked a less than sparkling interview. 

    At other times, he kept his dry sense of humor. During the 1965 tour of America, our chartered aircraft developed engine troubles while coming in low between the rocky walls of a nightmarishly narrow canyon near Portland, Oregon. It had to be taken out of service. A comparatively antique substitute machine was to be our alternate late-night transport to the West Coast after the show. 

    We inspected the dimly lit interior, noting the worn fabrics and paint-stripped fittings. George, who never enjoyed flying for the thrill for fun's sake, looked down a dusty coil of thick brown rope from a rack. "What is this for?" he asked a stewardess. "It's an escape ladder." "How long is it?" Pursued the Beatle. "About 12 feet, I guess." "I take it we shall fly to California at a steady 13 feet all the way," then concluded George in a hopeless sort of mutter. 

    All too often, I think George refused to see the funny side of Beetlemania. He took everything much too seriously, which is a mistake if you are in the business of entertainment.