Our Liverpool guide, Mark Roberts, is fumbling with his CD player while driving to ou
r next stop. He is intent that the music and the location greet us simultaneously, and the effort pays off as the voice of Paul sings the refrain to “Penny Lane” just as the street comes into view. As we pull to the curb to walk around a bit for the requisite photo-op, I am struck by how ordinary it looks—this could be a corner anywhere. The bank is there, as well as the barber and of course, the roundabout (no nurse or fireman in site). If anything, it reinforces to me how brilliant the Beatles were. Penny Lane seems so fanciful and vibrant in the song, thanks to the craftsmanship of the lyrics, making it impossible for the real thing to ever live up to the image. This little area is flanked on one side by the church that Paul sang choir in, so we can see that he surely had some attachment from his youth, and that the words are real to him. Mark even points out that back in Paul’s days here, there was a law firm on Penny Lane owned by two brothers who were the solicitors. There name was Strange, hence the firm of ‘Strange and Strange”. The song, of course, refrains ‘very strange’ several times, so all we can do is speculate as to whether this was just a turn of the lyrics, or another very real reference. I make a note to ask Paul when I see him.
A short drive away Is the gate to Strawberry Field—not ‘Fields’ in the plural—and in many ways the song about
this place is an answer for Paul writing about Penny Lane (always the competition). It had once been a children’s home, and John used to play in the woods here and attend concerts with Aunt Mimi. It was by all accounts a happy place for him, although the song lyrics seem mournful and confused in places and is clearly a very personal statement. All that is left now is the red gate, which is clearly labeled and attended to by some local people. To think that such a powerful icon’s physical integrity is left up to serendipity seems absurd, but there it is.
These two songs help illustrate some basic differences in Beatles fans: there are many, many people who know the songs, enjoy the music and require nothing more, which is fine. There are legions of more ardent devotees, however, many of whom lived and were aware at the height of the Beatle power, which see so much more. For myself, I can only say that the music is but one facet. The mystique, the chronicles and the events were then and always will be inseparably woven into my consciousness. Their influences on pop culture, fashion and yes, even drug use are profound. They were royalty in a tempestuous time, and millions of people, whether they care to admit it or not, were and still are somehow affected. The eye of the hurricane was their perch, and a phrase or a chord could wield considerable force. When I listen to the songs, these are the images that fill my mind, as well as what condition my own life was in at the time I first heard each tune. Analyzing the cover of Sgt. Pepper, sitting for hours listening to the White Album (frequently playing it backwards—‘turn me on, dead man!’), searching for the “Paul is dead” clues…these are as real to me as my first hit in baseball, first kiss, firs “D’ chord on my guitar, my first cigarette. It is impossible to separate 60’s popular culture from the Beatles and pointless to try.
It’s an uncharacteristic sunny day and the driving is smooth and pleasant, and frankly a relief to me after steering half way around Ireland days earlier (more on that part of the journey in a later post), and not being at all familiar with my surroundings is peculiarly pleasant. As we pull to a stop on a side street in front of a church, I know that this will be a most profound visit: the place where John and Paul met, St. Peter’s Church in the village of Wolton. Plenty on this has been written before, so I won’t reiterate, but again, it’s another place that I can’t believe I am actually standing in, and it’s all a bit surreal. There is a touching plaque on the outside of the hall marking the occasion, and we make our way through
the graveyard back to the area where John and the Quarrymen played at the fete. There is a row of high bushes blocking the exact site, but Mark points out that there really isn’t anything to see there. We do pass the grave of Eleanor Rigby (although Paul has famously said to have never seen it, it is quite readily noticed). We poke around a bit absorbing the atmosphere, which is quite lovely, and then it’s back to the car for the biggest stop of the tour.
A turn onto a very residential and unassuming side street finds us gliding to a stop and exiting the car. Following Mark we enter a gated driveway leading to a large house; the Casbah club is in the basement. This is a total rush, and as I observe the famous sign on the side of the bui
lding, I realize that in this moment my thoughts on what I thought I knew, are about to run head-long into what I am about to see firsthand. For any Beatle fan, this is truly a profound place to be. As we walk further down the drive we find ourselves in the back yard as it were. It is notable that the general condition of the house and grounds are quite shabby, especially in comparison to the other homes in the area (which Mark has informed us sell in the million pound range).
We are aware that we will be entering the club for a viewing, but instead of Mark Roberts, someone else will be showing us around—we are soon introduced to Rory Best. Yes, kids, this is Rory Best, brother of Pete Best, the drummer that was sacked in favor of Ringo on the eve of the band’s explosive success. I have just shaken the hand of someone who was not only there, but was intimately involved with the Beatles. My friend Greg opined that in this instant I changed my six degrees of separation down to two. I love this thought.
Rory is a slight man, quite trim in his leather coat
and looking very fit for his age. He is an absolute charmer, with kind, if somewhat sad, eyes. I can only imagine what it must be like for the Best family knowing how close they came to the brass ring only to have it yanked away. But if there is any animosity, it doesn’t show as he begins to narrate.
Mona Best, mother to Pete and Rory, is well known as the proprietor of the Club and of course as one of the initial supporters of the Beatles. In fact, the Quarrymen played the club before leaving for Hamburg and returning as the fab four. Rory explains that the family still owns the home, although they no longer live there and long ago it was split up into apartments. The b
asement, though, is untouched and reeks of the photographs I have seen.
It’s a large house, close to mansion size I would say, with a large basement to match. But when I consider that the Casbah Club reportedly held up to 1000 people during shows, it seems impossibly small. Low ceiling small rooms and hallways disjoint together and never form any one larger space, so it is very difficult to envision a crowd in the space. Oh, and those low ceilings…they still are finished with the paintings that the young Beatles did on them while helping Mona get the club open. John’s Aztec look in one room gives way to the famous ‘rainbow’ finish of Paul’s. The bar area displays the multiple stars look, with the legendary “silver” Beatle silhouette painted by Cynthia from a picture of John. Wow.
As we wander, listening intently to Rory as he sets the stories for us, there is much to observe: on one wall are the framed biographies that each Beatle wrote about themselves; over there is the corner where John convinced Stu to take his art award money and buy a bass; the famous ‘spider’ stage (Pete painted the web), and the very first stage they played, which is just the end of a small hallway no bigger than a closet. Amazing.
The tales that Rory tells are anti-climatic in a sense, having heard most of it before. The difference, of course, is that know I’ve heard it from the horse’s mouth. We ask questions, which colorizes the experience, giving validation to the stories. While driver Mark has waited outside, Mark and I buy some Black Labels from Rory and wander around the club, sipping and reflecting. The stage is accessible, and I stand on the center, hoping to feel the juice, player to player. Whatever I feel I cannot describe…but it’s enough. Enough to gain substance to the myth, enough to validate my own Beatles experience. No, no magic in these places, but that doesn’t matter because it is all very personal and everything exists differently to everyone. Mark and I are huge Beatles fans going way back, Patti and Shelley not so much. Two distinct groups that experience the same thing with drastically different appreciations. It’s not a good and bad thing, it’s a levels thing. We can all understand to some extent the historical significance of the places we have seen. For the ardent followers, it is much more intense, especially if they lived the times, and breathed the events…the music. I can understand the things that are significant to Patti in her life, but I can never appreciate them in the same way that she does—it’s a different connection. It’s enough for me that whatever it is, that it’s important to her. And so it is with the Beatles and me. She may not, share my rabid enthusiasm, but she understands it, I believe, and allows my dalliance.
As we bid Rory and The Casbah Club goodbye, there is another small group waiting ou
tside to begin their pilgrimage, and I am silently excited for them, my being a seasoned patron now. They will see the same things as me, maybe buy the same t-shirt and beer, but their experience will be unique. And that will be enough for them.
Mark Roberts has been an able and entertaining guide and is now woven into the fabric of my Beatles consciousness as he ends our journey as promised at the Lime Street Station, where we will meet our train to London. We are tired and hungry (confronting a lifelong pursuit can be exhausting) as we settle into surprisingly good sandwiches at a tiny shop, the last stop on the Liverpool excursion. Is it my imagination, or does my ham and cheese baguette resemble a Yellow Submarine….
r next stop. He is intent that the music and the location greet us simultaneously, and the effort pays off as the voice of Paul sings the refrain to “Penny Lane” just as the street comes into view. As we pull to the curb to walk around a bit for the requisite photo-op, I am struck by how ordinary it looks—this could be a corner anywhere. The bank is there, as well as the barber and of course, the roundabout (no nurse or fireman in site). If anything, it reinforces to me how brilliant the Beatles were. Penny Lane seems so fanciful and vibrant in the song, thanks to the craftsmanship of the lyrics, making it impossible for the real thing to ever live up to the image. This little area is flanked on one side by the church that Paul sang choir in, so we can see that he surely had some attachment from his youth, and that the words are real to him. Mark even points out that back in Paul’s days here, there was a law firm on Penny Lane owned by two brothers who were the solicitors. There name was Strange, hence the firm of ‘Strange and Strange”. The song, of course, refrains ‘very strange’ several times, so all we can do is speculate as to whether this was just a turn of the lyrics, or another very real reference. I make a note to ask Paul when I see him.A short drive away Is the gate to Strawberry Field—not ‘Fields’ in the plural—and in many ways the song about
this place is an answer for Paul writing about Penny Lane (always the competition). It had once been a children’s home, and John used to play in the woods here and attend concerts with Aunt Mimi. It was by all accounts a happy place for him, although the song lyrics seem mournful and confused in places and is clearly a very personal statement. All that is left now is the red gate, which is clearly labeled and attended to by some local people. To think that such a powerful icon’s physical integrity is left up to serendipity seems absurd, but there it is.These two songs help illustrate some basic differences in Beatles fans: there are many, many people who know the songs, enjoy the music and require nothing more, which is fine. There are legions of more ardent devotees, however, many of whom lived and were aware at the height of the Beatle power, which see so much more. For myself, I can only say that the music is but one facet. The mystique, the chronicles and the events were then and always will be inseparably woven into my consciousness. Their influences on pop culture, fashion and yes, even drug use are profound. They were royalty in a tempestuous time, and millions of people, whether they care to admit it or not, were and still are somehow affected. The eye of the hurricane was their perch, and a phrase or a chord could wield considerable force. When I listen to the songs, these are the images that fill my mind, as well as what condition my own life was in at the time I first heard each tune. Analyzing the cover of Sgt. Pepper, sitting for hours listening to the White Album (frequently playing it backwards—‘turn me on, dead man!’), searching for the “Paul is dead” clues…these are as real to me as my first hit in baseball, first kiss, firs “D’ chord on my guitar, my first cigarette. It is impossible to separate 60’s popular culture from the Beatles and pointless to try.
It’s an uncharacteristic sunny day and the driving is smooth and pleasant, and frankly a relief to me after steering half way around Ireland days earlier (more on that part of the journey in a later post), and not being at all familiar with my surroundings is peculiarly pleasant. As we pull to a stop on a side street in front of a church, I know that this will be a most profound visit: the place where John and Paul met, St. Peter’s Church in the village of Wolton. Plenty on this has been written before, so I won’t reiterate, but again, it’s another place that I can’t believe I am actually standing in, and it’s all a bit surreal. There is a touching plaque on the outside of the hall marking the occasion, and we make our way through
the graveyard back to the area where John and the Quarrymen played at the fete. There is a row of high bushes blocking the exact site, but Mark points out that there really isn’t anything to see there. We do pass the grave of Eleanor Rigby (although Paul has famously said to have never seen it, it is quite readily noticed). We poke around a bit absorbing the atmosphere, which is quite lovely, and then it’s back to the car for the biggest stop of the tour.A turn onto a very residential and unassuming side street finds us gliding to a stop and exiting the car. Following Mark we enter a gated driveway leading to a large house; the Casbah club is in the basement. This is a total rush, and as I observe the famous sign on the side of the bui
lding, I realize that in this moment my thoughts on what I thought I knew, are about to run head-long into what I am about to see firsthand. For any Beatle fan, this is truly a profound place to be. As we walk further down the drive we find ourselves in the back yard as it were. It is notable that the general condition of the house and grounds are quite shabby, especially in comparison to the other homes in the area (which Mark has informed us sell in the million pound range).We are aware that we will be entering the club for a viewing, but instead of Mark Roberts, someone else will be showing us around—we are soon introduced to Rory Best. Yes, kids, this is Rory Best, brother of Pete Best, the drummer that was sacked in favor of Ringo on the eve of the band’s explosive success. I have just shaken the hand of someone who was not only there, but was intimately involved with the Beatles. My friend Greg opined that in this instant I changed my six degrees of separation down to two. I love this thought.
Rory is a slight man, quite trim in his leather coat
and looking very fit for his age. He is an absolute charmer, with kind, if somewhat sad, eyes. I can only imagine what it must be like for the Best family knowing how close they came to the brass ring only to have it yanked away. But if there is any animosity, it doesn’t show as he begins to narrate.Mona Best, mother to Pete and Rory, is well known as the proprietor of the Club and of course as one of the initial supporters of the Beatles. In fact, the Quarrymen played the club before leaving for Hamburg and returning as the fab four. Rory explains that the family still owns the home, although they no longer live there and long ago it was split up into apartments. The b
asement, though, is untouched and reeks of the photographs I have seen.It’s a large house, close to mansion size I would say, with a large basement to match. But when I consider that the Casbah Club reportedly held up to 1000 people during shows, it seems impossibly small. Low ceiling small rooms and hallways disjoint together and never form any one larger space, so it is very difficult to envision a crowd in the space. Oh, and those low ceilings…they still are finished with the paintings that the young Beatles did on them while helping Mona get the club open. John’s Aztec look in one room gives way to the famous ‘rainbow’ finish of Paul’s. The bar area displays the multiple stars look, with the legendary “silver” Beatle silhouette painted by Cynthia from a picture of John. Wow.
As we wander, listening intently to Rory as he sets the stories for us, there is much to observe: on one wall are the framed biographies that each Beatle wrote about themselves; over there is the corner where John convinced Stu to take his art award money and buy a bass; the famous ‘spider’ stage (Pete painted the web), and the very first stage they played, which is just the end of a small hallway no bigger than a closet. Amazing.
The tales that Rory tells are anti-climatic in a sense, having heard most of it before. The difference, of course, is that know I’ve heard it from the horse’s mouth. We ask questions, which colorizes the experience, giving validation to the stories. While driver Mark has waited outside, Mark and I buy some Black Labels from Rory and wander around the club, sipping and reflecting. The stage is accessible, and I stand on the center, hoping to feel the juice, player to player. Whatever I feel I cannot describe…but it’s enough. Enough to gain substance to the myth, enough to validate my own Beatles experience. No, no magic in these places, but that doesn’t matter because it is all very personal and everything exists differently to everyone. Mark and I are huge Beatles fans going way back, Patti and Shelley not so much. Two distinct groups that experience the same thing with drastically different appreciations. It’s not a good and bad thing, it’s a levels thing. We can all understand to some extent the historical significance of the places we have seen. For the ardent followers, it is much more intense, especially if they lived the times, and breathed the events…the music. I can understand the things that are significant to Patti in her life, but I can never appreciate them in the same way that she does—it’s a different connection. It’s enough for me that whatever it is, that it’s important to her. And so it is with the Beatles and me. She may not, share my rabid enthusiasm, but she understands it, I believe, and allows my dalliance.
As we bid Rory and The Casbah Club goodbye, there is another small group waiting ou
tside to begin their pilgrimage, and I am silently excited for them, my being a seasoned patron now. They will see the same things as me, maybe buy the same t-shirt and beer, but their experience will be unique. And that will be enough for them.Mark Roberts has been an able and entertaining guide and is now woven into the fabric of my Beatles consciousness as he ends our journey as promised at the Lime Street Station, where we will meet our train to London. We are tired and hungry (confronting a lifelong pursuit can be exhausting) as we settle into surprisingly good sandwiches at a tiny shop, the last stop on the Liverpool excursion. Is it my imagination, or does my ham and cheese baguette resemble a Yellow Submarine….
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