Beatlemania!

“Did you really like the album?” George teased me.

“I did! Honestly,” I laughed. “It was ground-breaking for you lot. It just seemed...different, that’s all. The songs were no longer “she loves me” or even “yellow submarine.” It just seems...so grown up.”

“Well that’s all John’s doing, I tell you,” George took a sip of his coke.

We were sitting in a small café, eating lunch together. It was officially summer now; we were barely into June. It was still cold in stupid London.

“Mm,” I nodded, taking another bite of my sandwich. “I suppose things change.”

“Do you have a favourite song?” George’s glittering dark eyes challenged me.

“I did love a Day in the Life,” I admitted. “But Lovely Rita gets me every time.”

“Interesting,” he commented. “Very interesting.”
~

“You boys have been chosen to give a live broadcasted performance!” Brian exclaimed to the boys one evening after a relaxing dinner.

“A wot?” George replied starkly.

“A live television broadcast,” Brian’s enthusiasm wavered. “Come on, lads! You’ve been
especially chosen and all.”

Finally, John spoke up. “Alright.” He shrugged. “I’ll write somethin’ for it.”

Sure enough, in seventeen days, John had come up with a song, “All You Need Is Love.”
At the end of June, the boys assembled in the studio, to perform it. John was nervous as hell.

“Fuck it, Alice; I should just let Paul sing it; I can’t remember the damn lyrics,” he yanked at his hair minutes before the performance.

“Calm down you wuss,” I grinned at him. “You know the song. It’s brilliant, and so are you. Go on, what’s the first line?”

John looked at me blankly. “Son of a bitch!” he swore. “I don’t know how me own fuckin’ song starts!”

“John!” I snapped at him. “Stop swearing. Remember...there’s nothing you can do that can’t be done,” I sang sweetly.

He smiled in relief. “Right, right. I know the song.”

All four of them were wearing decidedly hippy clothing. Especially dear Ringo, who was wearing a lavender shirt with so many beads on it that it was a wonder he could sit up.

Paul made my heart skip a beat with that adorable flower stuck into his headphones, and he had shaven off that ridiculous moustache. The studio had been filled with orchestras, children, and decorations: balloons, flowers galore, glitter, and microphones.

It sounded beautiful. I was stuck with George Martin in the little booth, but my heart swelled with pride for all of them. George gave me a little wink, and Ringo bashed about on his drums.

The sweetest thing for me was watching John and Paul exchange laughs and grins that reminded all of us that they were best mates, despite all of the differences between them.

I laughed out loud at the end, when John and Paul broke into “She loves you.” I sung along loudly, and George Martin smiled happily. It was a fantastic day.

I really wanted to run over to Paul and kiss him like there was no tomorrow. But, no matter
how good the song was, I didn’t thing that all people ever needed was love. I needed stability and trust, and it didn’t seem like Paul was ready to give that to me.
~

George took us to meet the Maharishi in August. He was an old, Indian man whose voice didn’t match his face. George and John took a real shine to his meditation methods, and set a date to meet in Wales for a trial run.

“You have to come, Alice,” George called me the evening before.

“I don’t know, George. The meditation thing is more you and John’s forte. I’d probably ruin the trip for you two.” I bit my lip.

All this meditation stuff was a load of bullshit to me, although the idea of clearing your mind made sense, I just called it relaxing; watch a bit of TV; order some fish and chips.

“Please, love? It would mean a lot to me,” he begged.

I finally conceded and I packed my bags for the weekend trip. We set off early Friday morning. Too early for me. The train ride resulted in me curled up in the back of the compartment, asleep.
~

Wales was a wet, boring place. And to me, the Maharishi was an old, boring man. I grew tired of his lecture within the first ten minutes. Paul and Ritchie lost interest within fifteen. John and George (George especially) were fascinated for the entire hour.

I truly wished Paul and I were on speaking terms so that I could mock this whole thing with him. By Sunday morning, John and George were infatuated, and I was ready to go home.

The Maharishi summoned only the four Beatles into his office, and I had a good larf with Neil about the stupidity of meditating.

The boys reappeared with grim faces. I hurried over to them.

“What? What’s happened?” I asked concernedly.

“Brian’s dead,” John replied heavily.

“Ha!” I snorted. “Funny. But really...what’s the matter?”

Ringo put his face in his hands and shook it. “No, really, Alice. He’s gone.”

My face turned white. “What do you mean dead? How?”

“Mixin’ his pills and alcohol, I’ll bet,” John clenched his fist. “I’ve been tellin’ him.”

I felt tears well up in my eyes. “Are we going home?”

“Yes. Of course,” Paul looked like a ghost.

Before we left, George insisted we go to the Maharishi and ask him for advice on how to console themselves.

“Brian’s death, being in the direct realm of the physical world,” the Maharishi said in his strange, squeaky voice, “is not important.”

My blood boiled at that remark. Of course it was important! He was the fifth Beatle! He ran the show! He was a good, kind man!

The train back to London was different than the one to Wales. I sat with John in the front. There was no conversation; just deathly silence.

“I’m tellin’ you,” John frowned. “The Beatles have fuckin’ had it, now.”