Dr. Winton O'Boogie Visits Philadelphia!

Every time I post photos and stories of fans that were fortunate to meet John in Philadelphia in 1975, I think that will be the end of it, but then I find more and always want to share them.    These are from the "New Beatles Fan Club" 

Written by Tracy Geoghegan from Delaware

On Friday, May 16, 1975, John Lennon arrived in Philadelphia to do a radio marathon, his first, for the benefit (no, not of Mr. Kite) of the handicapped children of Philadelphia area.  It was broadcast over WFIL a well-known radio station in that area.   It went on for three days, started at 3:00 in the afternoon on Friday and continuing until 12:00 midnight Sunday.  When it was over a grand total of $117,000.00 had been raised.  Some of the highlights were as follows:

John received two long-distance phone calls, both of which were broadcast live over the radio.  One was from Yoko, and the other was from Neil Sedaka (who you may recall dedicated his song, "The Immigrant" to John).

John had a lot of fun picking out records, doing the weather report, jumping in the middle of commercials, saying things like "Gay people are beautiful," and singing along with Ringo when "Yellow Submarine" was played.

Mr. Lennon also spent a lot of the weekend in the parking lot signing autographs, posing for pictures with fans, and kissing people.

All in all, it was a delightful, typically John Lennon weekend.


Written by Karla Wambold from Pennsylvania

Guess what?  I met John Lennon on May 16th and 17th, 1975 in Philadelphia,.  See, every year WFIL radio has a marathon to help raise money for all kinds of handicapped kids (by all kinds I mean blind, crippled, deaf, etc.).  This year John agreed to come and help out with it.  He signed autographs for fans who came to the studio to see him, posed for pictures, and the usual bit.  The marathon was to start on May 16th at 3pm, and I knew John would be there early and naturally, I wanted to be on hand for his arrival.  I got to the studio about 1pm with a few things I wanted him to autograph, plus my trusty camera was with me.  John arrived at about 2:00 to a crowd of about ten or so people.   All of us there had thought we'd never get to see him because of his deportation and all.  We had fun.

He signed for me an 8 x 10 picture (the one from the White Album), my autograph book, "In His Own Write," by J.L. (who else but?), my Beatles t-shirt (which I was wearing at the time), and a poster about the marathon which I had "borrowed" from the front desk.   And John posed for as many pictures as he possibly could before he had to go back in.  By the time 3pm came around the crowd grew.  And he would come out off and on during the evening to sign autographs and stuff.  But he went to the hotel to rest until about 9:00 the next morning.

On the 17th, I went with all the Beatles magazines I've collected over the years to have John sign.  What got me is that he remembered me from the day before!  And he was more than happy to sign all those magazines for me.  Anyway, at one point around noon, the days of Beatlemania returned!  When John came out for the third time that day this one girl got overly excited, and her excitement spread quickly through the crowd.  Naturally, John had to hurry back in, and the cops and guards tried their damnedest to get us in a state of normalcy!   Of sure, the Philadelphia cops and the WFIL/WPVI guards were around to keep order, but they let us the fans and John to ourselves because we all wanted to meet him and he us.  And we were a good enough crowd that we got no hassles.  Other than that one incident everything was great!

But everything went cool!  I couldn't go on the 18th even though I wanted to.  I did take some pictures, thought and they turned out beautiful.  As for the marathon, they raised over $115,000.00 for the kids.  And most of it was because of John being there.

The weekend was over too soon, and at the end, I felt like crying.  I always wanted to meet a Beatle, and I finally did.  I never thought I would and never thought if I did that he'd be so nice.  I heard all these things saying that John was this or he was that, but they were all implied.  All I can say now is that all those rumors are just rumors and I should be ashamed for in any way believing them.  John was just the nicest man. All I could do is love him.  I really can't describe my feelings towards him after that weekend.  John is nice and not the "thing" people say he is.  He is human, too!

Vintage Venus and Mars review

This past month Paul re-released two classic Wings albums:  Venus and Mars and Speed of Sound.   I was extremely lucky for once in my life and I won both of these album through a contest at the Fab 4 Free For All.   I really got into Wings in the past 10 years and I never owned these albums, although I have been familiar with all of the songs on them.    I just had never heard them packed as an album.    I have been enjoying them, but I especially like Venus and Mars.     I found this review from a fanzine written in 1975, when Venus and Mars was first released and I thought it was really interesting to read.   The perspective in 1975 was quite different than today and I thought it was worth a read.

McCartney’s Interplanetary Nonsequitur:  Venus & Mars

By Jim Bollinger

The New Beatles Fan club

Vol II #6

Paul McCartney has spent the last year or so reforming his band which ran out on him, and has also been doing some running of his own, all over the US of A.  During this time, he rode the waves of the success caused by his platinum LP, Band on the Run, and only turned out one new bit of music in all of 1974, and that was only a two-sided single. 

Although “Junior’s Farm” did moderately well on the record chart, it was generally overlooked, and overshadowed by hits from two of Paul’s former partners.  I personally felt “Sally G,” the single’s B-side, held out some promise for Paul and his clipped Wings; the lyrics held together well and the Country & Western format showcased wife Linda’s whining voice rather well.

Anyway, that single seemed to indicate that Paul’s latest musical bent was more toward Roy Clark than the Beatles.  This is mainly what I expected from Venus and Mars.  What I got, however, is an entirely different mater.

Venus and Mars is a slick package of music which shows that Paul did more in New Orleans than clown in the Mardi Gras and watch the Super Bowl.  In fact, and surprisingly so, this entire album is thick withi the New Orleans jazz-rock.  And the performance of the reborn Wings is perhaps the most delightful aspect of this new LP.

Venus and Mars is perhaps the prettiest sounding album by any of the one-time Fab Four since Side Two of Abbey Road.  Of course, this hasn’t the impact or sterling quality to come really close to Abbey Road, but the comparison may still be considered valid. 

McCartney, in an attempt to duplicate the successful semi-concept of his last LP, appears to be kicking a dead horse in trying to conjure a concept out of nothingness; the result is the poorest song on the album, the title cut.  And then Paul has the temerity to compound this crime by inserting a reprise of this filler on Side Two (where it does, however, sound a little better).  

The second song on the album kicks off what seems like a string of very subtle McCartney-style (remember RAM?) references to his ex-partners and their various relationships.  “Rock Show” contains some glaringly obvious references to George Harrison (“Come on, get your wig on straight; we can’t be late”;  “he looks a lot like a guy I knew way back when” “with the Philly (as opposed to L.A. perhaps) band,”  etc.), with a few possible remarks about David Bowie, too.  It is, however, a pretty fair rocker with a section that sounds lifted from Lennon’s old “Hey Bulldog.”

“Magneto and Titanium Man” may be a cleverly-disguised retort to accusations that Linda has ruined his music:  “and then it occurred to me/You couldn’t be bad…/You were the law.”  IN any case, it’s too self-consciously silly to be serious about its silliness.  Completing this string of ambiguous songs is the albums concluding medley “Treat her Gently/Lonely Old People”  Note the first two verse:  “Treat her gently/Treat her kind/She doesn’t even know her own mind/Treat her simply/Take it slow/Make it easy/And let her know/You’ll never find another way.”  That’s Paul McCartney advice to the lovelorn if I ever heard any.  But who’s the lovelorn?  John Lennon? Since the song was most likely written before the Lennons’ reunion, anything is possible.  Then examine the second part of the song”  “Here we sit/ Out of breath/ and nobody asked us to play.”  This may be construed by some as referring to Paul and John and the fate of the Beatles, due largely to the nebulous lyrics and the presence of a guitar complete with that teardrop sound straight off Lennon’s #9 Dream.

In other songs, the aforementioned New Orleans influence is unmistakable.  “Letting Go” is fine and funky, with one shortcoming – Linda’s background vocals come through a little too clearly.  Paul and Wings’ latest hit single, the slick “Listen to what the man said,” is a song with which even Rolling Stone could find no fault.  Other New Orleans-influenced songs with a nice sound are:  “Medicine Jar,” my personal favorite, penned by the cut’s lead singer, new Wings guitarist, Jimmy McCulloch.  It’s a refreshing song; spunky and well-played, with lyrics that can stand well with most McCartney compositions.  Then there’s “Spirits of Ancient Egypt,” which starts out well, dripped with Jim Stafford-type swamp mystery before its effect is destroyed by that silly bridge about Egypt and Rome.

Other influences evident on the album are historical.  On “You Gave me the Answer,”  McCartney hails back to his White Album days in a cut very reminiscent of “Honey Pie,” with traces of “When I’m 64” thrown in for good measure.  Another is “Call me Back Again,” a fine take-off of Rhythm & Blues which sounds hauntingly like Lennon’s “Yer Blues.”

McCartney is not yet, however, quite up to par he set with the Beatles, especially lyrically.  The words accompanying the ofttimes splendid music are usually anything but intelligent, and a few may be considered among the worst Paul has yet produced.  Some of them are so close to the “moon-June-spoon” school of writing (of which McCartney is Crown Prince) that it borders on absurdity:  “Any time, any day/ You can hear the people say/ That love is blind, well, I don’t know/ but I say love is kind.”  Really!

And there’s Paul’s subject matter: who is this man we are or are not supposed to listen to?  What do Venus & Mars have to do with a sports arena or a cathedral?   Why would Lucifer shine, looking like snow in a Broadway show?  And how do Egyptian and roman spirits get into a love song about now?  Those are but a few of the many unanswered questions the alert listeners poses after monitoring Venus and Mars.

With Venus and Mars, Paul McCartney’s music is finally beginning to assume direction and dimension.  At last, he seems to have settled into a sonance he likes enough to cultivate.  (Wings is given full credit for its work on the album, and shine through on Denny Laine’s guitar-work, with fine performance by the rest, too).  Of course, with this new turn of events, McCartney may alienate some of his accustomed audience, but at least he has enough guts to try, anyway.

Venus and Mars is a nice album –even a good album.  It’s narrower in scope than Band on the run, and in several other ways doesn’t measure up to that coup; but it is slicker and glossier than its predecessor and succeeds in an entirely different manner.   McCartney has followed up the greatest solo success reasonably well with this album.  His weaknesses still glare through the glossiness, but it has gotten to the point where one simply allows for them and enjoys the music.  Besides, it’s possible that the “Crossroads” with Paul ends the album may have more significance than its muzak-filler appearance would indicate.

The Hollywood Bowl in 1964

Here is a story that I found in a fan magazine from the mid 1970's called "the New Beatles fan club" of a fan who saw the Beatles in concert at the Hollywood Bowl in 1964.   Here is her memories of that famous night. 

The Hollywood Bowl 1964

By Kathy Mignosi

The new Beatles Fan Club newsletter

What first comes to my mind is not so much the actual performances witnesses at these marvelously enthusiastic shows.  Rather the literally painful experience I would go through before getting my precious tickets and feeling such rendering anxiety, 24-hours a day.  That was half of being the young, full-fledged Beatlemaniac that I was.  You didn’t have to be looking at their photos in a magazine, or listening to their songs on a radio to always be aware of that gnawing sensation in the pit of your gut.  It was constantly making you cry in y our pillow at night, or kiss the color portrait of Paul that hung over your bed on the wall until the image of his lips had faded.  I remember doing my share of crying.  It wasn’t something to hide.  Rather a display of sacrifice of your inner most feelings of love for John, Paul, George and dear, dear Ringo.  You’d make a mental note that if the need ever arose, you would gladly give your life to save theirs.  But meantime, since you couldn’t’ follow in the footsteps of “Romeo and Juliet”, you hoped other sacrifices would do just as well.

Such was the state of mind of many a Beatlemaniac.  Like so many others, I tried to find ways to save money so that I could go to the concerts.  Losing weight wasn’t a fad – but a must if you wanted to use your lunch money towards seeing the Beatles in person.  I spent much time outside of classes with  transistor radio plug in one ear to catch any word there might be on ticket information while the days  dwindled towards the big day.  While wondering if I’d get them in the mail, I’d do a daily vigil on the phone after school to the local teen rock station (in this case, KRLA) which ran contests on the hour for sets of Beatle concert tickets.   I never succeeded in winning such a catch so easily, but as it turned out, I always managed to see them when they’d come my way during their three state-side tours.

The days of one warm and balmy August in 1964 ticked slowly by.  The radio deejays would teasingly and quite loudly announce, “Twenty-eight more days until B-day!” and go into Beatle triple plays.  During the months that the group would be appearing in the area, radio stations would average three songs an hour by the Fan Foursome.  Was it any wonder then that the hours before the Beatles strolled on stage were filled with such electricity?  There was a time-bomb ready to go off, and it had been set over a month ago.  The bomb was us and we were going to pieces!

My first time attending any kind of teenage rock concert happened to have been at the heralded Hollywood Bowl concert in 1964, seeing the Beatles.  I was 13.  I also was to be there in ’65 and at Dodger Station in ’66 for subsequent Beatle shows.  But for the first one, I couldn’t anticipate what was to happen—the scene being unique to me.  Probably to most the other kids as well.  The faces were all scrubbed, anxious and animated.  The flush of youth was all about.  Not to mention people selling anything they could get money for with the Beatles image on it.  But that didn’t matter.  The throng of fans grew steadily as we waited outside of the Bowl before the box office opened to let us into the open-air arena.   The summer night was full of noise and excitement.  Lights from hundreds of motorists trying to pass through seemed like a galaxy of flash bulbs going off in our faces.  We all stood around in gangs – carousing with other kids we knew—acting like dozens of glee clubs at a gigantic rally.  Here and there you could catch strains f a rousing chorus from a Beatle song being played on someone’ radio.  We tittered and squealed, feeling almost uncontrollable as we watched news and cameramen wearing about the crush of bodies, shooting angles of the crowds from afar.  Two hours passed as the sun went behind the hill the Bowl was set in, the evening air grew comfortable, and the crowd surged nervously.  The tension was unbelievable as we finally were able to file into the Bowl to our respective seats.

It wasn’t until we were looking for our seats that we saw a lovely sight.  In the remaining dim light of day I could see clearly the Beatles’ equipment on stage.  Some of us went to the box seats to get a close look, spying Ringo’s Ludwig drum kit sitting atop an elevated platform, the embossed letters saying “The Beatles” on the bass drum standing out invitingly.  A wave of appreciative screeches was let out as the guitars propped up against Ringo’s platform were recognized.  I remember feeling awed, seeing Paul’s violin-shaped bass guitar, standing there alone.  I sat for a long time, taking in the empty stage that would soon be occupied by the Liverpool Lads.

My friends and I, as well as the rest of 20,000 attending the concert started jumping up and down, shouting and waving our programs as a local DJ stepped out for a few words.  It seemed as if a stray cat had walked out instead, our reaction would have been the same – feelings as keyed-up as we did.  The air was thick with the energy each of us gave off like sparks flying from a piece of flint—making us feel even wilder.

My senses were fast slipping away in mass hysteria as I suddenly realized IT WAS HAPPENING!  Oh God—there they were—in a sea of twinkling lights from a thousand cameras.  All reflected in a huge pool that lay in front of the stage.  The wildlife around must have wondered what had hit their hillside that night as the peaceful August evening was erupted into one joyful wail.

Four slender boys in tight, black suits and boots rambled and bounced about as they donned guitars and drum sticks, preparing to attack the night with a battery of sound.  It was all so blurry and yet crystal-clear as I proceeded to beat myself to a pulp, watching Paul stomp his booted foot in 4-4 time, as Ringo smashed a cymbal, and the Beatles rooled into their first number, “Twist and Shout.”  During the group’s touring years, “Twist and Shout” was the song that got the show going.  The concert version was shortened to avoid wear-and-tear on John’s vocal chords.  His beautifully, gruff, nasal voice rose about the roar of the fans—“shake it up baby now” while Paul and George huddled together at the other mike, harmonizing.  The song ended quickly with a bassy chord, and the four took their low and formal bow that had become so famous.  The songs rocked on, broken up now and then by the boys cracking up over a personal joke, or something said during an introduction.  Paul stepped up to the mike, being the one who would introduce a large portion of the songs while the others made amp adjustments or changed instruments.  Again he emphasized the starting beat with his body, swinging his bass guitar, skipping about with his long legs and belting out “All my Loving.”  The music floated out over the arena filled with hysterical girls and bewildered adults.  I heard myself happily squealing, which could have been more disastrous to the lungs of someone normal!  Occasionally, I became aware to my amazement of the intense sound that the audience was producing.  The screams were, as a while, shattering.  I h ad never heard anything like it on such a grand scale.  That, plus the rocking and reeling music drove us simply mad.  There came a pause in between numbers as we momentarily heaved a sigh, the screams ebbing somewhat, while John took over the mike.  For this trip, the famous black leather cap was missing.  For the other concerts I saw, he would pull some funny tricks with a cap.  Throwing it high into the air and racing about the stage.  He delighted the audience.  He even went down the side steps of the stage and back again.  John would plant himself firmly in front of his mike; feet spread to each side, and break into the next song, singing the high notes with a strained, squinty-eyed expression.  One funny spot would be when he would forget what album a song was from (the boys understandably confusing the American and the English arrangements), and mumble something while scratching his head, looking over at Paul who would dimple and crinkle his eyes up in a loud laugh.  The lull in the audience would immediately shatter into squeals, and the boys reeling into “A Hard Day’s Night”.    At one point in the show, Paul assumed role of spokesman again, thanking everyone and inquiring if we were all having a good time.  Of course this produced a tremendous chorus of screeches, to which Paul would pull a face at John, who would then laugh weakly and check George who was by one of the amps, changing his guitar.  “This next number,” Paul spoke out, breathless, his accent thick, “will be sung by a member of the group who doesn’t get to sing much…”  The audience was full of anticipation, knowing what was coming next.  Paul continued, his voice getting higher with the build-up “and here is, singing ‘Boys’ –RINGO!”  If there had been a roof over us, it surely would have come down.  The clammer grew to an all-time high as Ringo sang in his not-so-strong but very lovable voice.  It was a treat for us to be able to see the little silent Richie suddenly commanding the spotlights for his one song.  The others played along, dancing a bit, hamming it up and looking back and forth at one another.  The song ended with an extra low bow form our drummer boy, and a quick “thank you”.  I can’t remember all the numbers that were sung, though I supposed if I tried, I could.  But I am sure the main essence of the concert comes through.  Everyone was having a ball as the songs rolled on in quick succession.  The music pounded out of the amps, throbbing from Paul’s driving bass as he put on a constant display of boyish energy while belting out a song in savage fashion.  There was lean George being coolly aloof, breaking his deep concentration on his articulate playing now and then, with a broad grin or a quick jig.  John’s famous antics and mannerisms made us crack up in-between screams; his dirty old man leering made us squirm fitfully.  And then Ringo –sitting above it all—swaying and flashing his endearing smile as he kept up a powerful beat.  With every little twitch or movement form the boys, the level of screams rose quickly to a frightful pitch.  The group’s personalities, as individual performers and certainly as a whole came across as fuel to the fire.  And though we were innocent of the fact that the Beatles’ lives were hellishly grueling at that point, the ently lively, spiced with the sexually exciting visual effect the boys had on me.

But like all fantasies, they must end with a rude awakening.  The dozen or so songs were run through, and our loves were whisked away, into an armored car, and off to their hide-away in the hills.  It was only the beginning for me, even though the concert itself had ended.  And though things have changed in so many ways especially since then, I can’t help but feel that it hasn’t really ended yet.