A Magical Mystery Tour in Beatle-land
By George Estrada
The Oakland Tribune
December 16, 1984
I visited the house at 251, Menlove Avenue. My taxi driver took a snapshot of me standing in front of it. I couldn't believe it. What could beat this?
"Oh, did you know that Paul McCartney will be in town tomorrow?" The cabbie asked .
"What? "
"Yeah, he's received an honor from the Liverpool town council."
Bingo!
A telephone call, a visit to the town council public relations office, a show of my Tribune, press credentials, a brief explanation that I'm an American journalist on a holiday, but I'd like to cover this event, and there I was sitting in the midst of the British press in the main room of the town library, waiting for Paul McCartney to receive his freedom of the city award, symbolic of all the things he's done to enhance the image of Liverpool.
While we waited, I struck up a conversation with one of the British reporters, Alan Peters, a freelancer. Back in 1959, when Peters was a young "Ted", he lived very near to Stu Sutcliffe. "Stu once came over and borrowed a Gene Vincent album from me. All the Mersy bands copied the Gene Vincent style."
Outside, mobs of giddy school girls are screaming their bloody heads off. Paul arrived. Beatlemania returned.
The ceremony began. Paul boyishly mugged his way through the endless speeches of the local officials. "Aw, shucks, mates", he seemed to be saying.
The ceremony ended, and the reporters were allowed into a back room for a press conference. There, I met him, eye to eye. Paul -- this topped it all. What were the odds? A million to one?
I tried to maintain a professional demeanor. "Paul, do you worry about security these days, with all the lunatics out there?
Paul: "No, I'm not really worried about all that. What happens--Happens. You know? George is the one who is a recluse. He doesn't like to get out and do these sort of appearances. He's more of a behind-the-scenes type, producing stuff and like that. He always was a bit shy, you know, just a normal kind of fellow."
"Your new film, Give My Regards to Broad Street, just came out. Do you plan to do more films?"
" Well, I figured doing a film would give me a fresh outlook. You know, I'm first and foremost a musician, though I've been acting all me life."
I asked a few more questions, which I don't remember. He mumbled some responses I don't remember. He was being inundated by members of the normally reserved British press who had turned into salivating autograph-hounds. Beatlemania will do that to you.
I slid over to Linda McCartney, who was holding a bunch of flowers given to her by the town council, and talked to a couple of News of the World reporters.
"How has your new movie been received in America?" I intruded. "Well, some like it, and some not so much." She looked up and smiled. "Mainly, it's the people who like it and the critics who don't like it, but you know how critics are."
She answered a couple more queries, and she was hustled off by Paul and one of the town counselors.
It was over. I'd come to Liverpool and met a Beatle, purely by the hand of fate. Leaving the library, I hailed a cab and headed back to the train station.
"Guess what?" I told the cab driver, still fresh with excitement. "I just met Paul McCartney."
"Oh, you did?" He glanced in the mirror. "Well, I guess that makes you a real cowboy now, doesn't it? " The dream is not alive in English, taxi cabs, I figured.
I sat back, then turned my head to steal a last glance at the retreating Mersey River. It looked good to me. Life was good despite what John Lennon had told us many years ago, it was clear there are dreams of plenty left in the world.
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