It had been a year exactly.
"I remember I was just up," Stu reminisced, "millin' about, dressin' for class when the word came." He strolled to The Jac window and stared outside. "It was all over Radio Luxembourg, unclear - ghostly in all that static."
"I wasn't even sure I'd heard it right," their friend, Bill Harry added. "I hoped I hadn't heard it right."
"Yeah, they're playin' his songs all day today, as a tribute," George nodded.
"And what good's that?" John sipped the "before hours" tea that Beryl Williams had brewed for him, savouring every swallow against a ragged throat. "I mean, what's he bleedin' care if we're all down here waxin' sentimental? He's fuggin' dead! Done! Finished. And that's all there is to it, isn't it?"
"Nah, not really." Stu folded his arms against his chest. "Not if the music lives. Not if he started somethin' that's buildin' even now to epidemic proportions."
"Buddy Holly's rock'n'roll's still out there, y'know," Bill agreed, "still alive, even after the year, isn't it?"
"That's all shite," John sneered.
"Ah, but it isn't, and y'know it isn't," Bill smiled.
"It is and you know that it is," John insisted, joining Stu in the sunlight of the bay window, "I won't give a fuggin'ell what people think of me or even if they think of me, once I'm gone."
The two friends stood together, watching the first, feeble trickle of city-goers plodding lifelessly towards unimaginative destinations. John slurped his tea and felt the acrid lemon sting his tonsils. He took large gulps and let it work.
Beryl had brought The Moondogs and their affable journalist friend in out of the cold despite the fact that it was her time for cleaning and restocking. The Jac didn't officially open for hours - until almost noon - and she never admitted customers early. But "her boys" had been shivering and hungry, and John Lennon had claimed to be half sick. That, for Beryl, was reason enough to bend the rules.
"Well," Stu refused to relent, "I want to be remembered. In fact, it's crucial as I see it. For an artist it's all that matters, if y'think of it. It's eternal life. It's the artist's 'hereafter' - fame."
"Oh no, it's ole Van Gogh again, George!" John shouted over his shoulder. "Lend him your ears."
"What's here and now," Stu went on, unfazed, "it's just the construction phase, y'know. But what comes after life, that's the appraisal, the critique - the chance for immortality."
"It's the chance for immorality I'm after," John muttered to no one.
"Here's where we do the work," Stu continued, "but only the years'll tell if we made it count...if it changes things."
"That's all mystical hype, Sutcliffe!" John strolled to the rear counter and began nosing underneath in search of cigs - reaching into the far recesses and shoving saucers this way and that. "I mean, face it - other'n a day like this or perhaps his birthday, who goes around memoralizin' Buddy fuggin' Holly?"
"I do, for one." Stu was earnest. "I think about him a lot, really. I listen to him as I paint, and I wonder if he knows - wherever he is - that he was one of the greats, right up there with Chuck Berry and Little Richard and Elvis - not just a rocker, in for a moment and out after a season - but a pioneer, a creator of a movement."
"A dead man," John said. Finding a half-pack of Embassys, he lit one and straddled a chair.
"Well, be that as it may," Stu went on, "I was thinkin' that since it was a year ago today that he died, and since we've been kickin' around the idea of a new name for the band 'n all...I was thinkin' we might give 'im a nod and rename the band after him."
"The Hollies?" John made a face at George who snickered. He laughed at anything John said. "Fuggin' lame!"
"The Buddies, then?" George chimed in.
"That's very public school," Bill teased.
Stu hardly smiled. "I was thinkin' more along the lines of Buddy Holly and the Crickets, y'know, except with a twist...like...well...what I'd come up with is "The Beetles " - a tribute and a double entendre...a wordplay on the beat of the band."
"Not bad. Right, John?" George raised an eyebrow.
"Beetles, is it?" John hunkered over his tea and cig. "But to get the meanin' over to the ordinary man, it would have to be Beetles spelled B-e-a-."
Stu quickly sat down next to John. "Right," he nodded, "B-e-a-t for the beat rhythm and all of that. The Beatals."
John had to buy into this name, or it wouldn't have a chance.
"Yeah," George's hand traced an invisible marquee, "I can see it now: The Beatals, live from Liverpool!"
"Except for the fact," John pointed his cigarette at Stu, "that Al's dead set on that Long John Silver nomenclature of his. Especially since his 'worshipped golden Cass' suggested it."
"Let Brian Casser name his own group!" Stu snubbed The Cassanova's leader and grabbed John's cig for a long draw. "We can manage for ourselves in the creativity department, ta."
"Yeah, we can manage for ourselves." George sat on the tabletop next to them.
"There's only one hitch in that philosophy, son." John took his Embassy back. "Al's our actual manager now. And he's not much for tribute crap. He hasn't a single sentimental bone in his entire Welsh frame - has Al."
"If something's not razzmatazz, it's no fuggin' good where
Allan's concerned," Bill agreed, "and if it's not his
idea, it's all shite."
"Yeah, okay," Stu conceded, "but we could use his
name...and just shorten it, right? I mean, how about...The Silver
Beatals then? Spelled B-e-a-t-a-l-s? Unique spellin'...even
a bit of the quirky tossed in as well."
"Silver Beatals," George smiled. "Paul'll go for it. He's a great one for names these days, isn't he?"
They laughed at Paul's recent suggestion that they all assume "stage names" for performances. Paul wanted to be Paul Ramon. Stuart had chosen Stu de Stael in homage to his favourite artist, Nicholas de Stael, and in honor of American country singer, Carl Perkins, George had selected Carl Harrison. Only John had flatly refused to participate in the pseudonym game. It annoyed Paul and disappointed George that John wouldn't join in the fun. But Stu looked past John's stubbornness to his friend's need for validation.
Despite what John said about the futility of fame and notoriety, Stu knew that John ached to prove his worth. Becoming famous anonymously or under some assumed identity had no appeal, no meaning for John at all.
Suddenly, without a word of explanation, George jumped up and flipped the laminated cardboard sign on The Jac to "Open." An attractive blonde shop girl in a crisp white blouse and charcoal pencil skirt clipped by on Slater Street, and when the motion caught her eye, George smiled, waved, and motioned her inside. She pinched in a grin and hurried on, but at the corner, she hesitated for a moment, indulging in a furtive backward glance.
"Jilted again," George shrugged, wandering back to his perch.
"I've told you a thousand times," John put his feet up on one of Allan's tiny tables, "drummers get all the girls, son. You'd be great as a drummer, y'know. You ought to give it some consideration, oughtn't you?"
"I'm a guitarist, John." George plopped back down, weary of the drummer discussion, "A lead guitarist."
"I thought Al was workin' on that - gettin' you lot a drummer." Bill settled into a chair with the rest. Stu tossed his cigarette stub into the last of John's tea.
"Yeah, right," John grumbled. "He's always just about to close the deal, just about to sign some fanfuggin'tastic one or the other."
"But he never does." George threw his eyes to the ceiling.
Right on cue, as if the old adage of speaking of the devil actually held potency, Allan Williams burst through the front door, his cheeks red from the February cold, his dark eyes sparkling.
"What the hell are you lot doin' here before openin'?" he sputtered, flipping the sign back to "Closed" and pushing the front door shut with his heel. "Why are you here, Harry? And get yer filthy feet of the fuggin' table, Lennon..."
"'ullo, Al," George beamed.
"Always a pleasure," Stu teased.
"Mr. Williams," Bill's eyes were full of mischief.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah." Al removed his gloves and coat and joined them, pulling up a chair for once - leaning in with a grin, as if he actually liked them for a moment. "Helluva way to start a mornin', but since you're here, albeit uninvited...there is a bit of news, lads."
"Go on," John was guarded.
"Whether y'deserve it or not - and I personally hold with the 'or not,'" Allan licked his lips, his eyes bright, "you Quarry Men or Moondogs or whoever the hell you are this week are in for a fuggin' fabulous treat, as it were!"
"Please say it's a drummer, Mr. Manager. Please!" John batted his eyelashes rapidly.
"Yeah," George agreed, "we could use one of those. My future depends upon one of those."
"Well, you'll have to settle for tickets this go-round." Allan brandished a handful of yellow, paper squares.
"Naturally. We love tickets as well." George was immediately interested.
"To what?" Stu reached in for a look-see, but Allan held back, dramatically setting the stage.
"Tickets...to 'The Greatest Show Ever to be Staged,' to a ffffuggin' production you'll never forget...to the show of shows, the night of nights, the one and only extravaganza at The Liverpool Empire, featurin' none other than Eddie Cochran and Gene Vincent themselves - in person, in life, and in Liverpool! 14 March! Be there!"
"And exactly what do they have to do in order to deserve this night of nights?" Bill narrowed his eyes at the entrepreneur. Allan feigned a hurt expression.
"That's cold-blooded thanks, Harry, when here I am...strivin' to show the lads my unabated appreciation for all they've done around here...for fixin' up the loo and for being so fuggin' patient about waitin' for just the right drummer to come along, as it were."
"And," John flashed a caustic grin that lasted only half a second, "for waitin' so patiently for a decent gig as well. You forgot that one, didn't ya?"
"Pffffft!" Allan waved him off. "Concentrate on the here and now, Lennon. This show - this Vincent-Cochran thing - is goin' to be my biggest production to date...I'm dottin' every 'i' and crossin' every fuggin' 't' to make sure it's as first-rate as first rate goes. And for you, it's the rarest of chances to see professional bands up close...to learn techniques, study showmanship - to pick up a few things you've never even dreamed of!"
"I've dreamed of a drummer," John said. "Have they got any of those at the show?"
"I'd like to see what one looks like," George added. "We haven't any 'round these parts, y'know."
"Bugger off." Allan went on, unfazed. "Now..." his cheeks flushed with the drama of a pregnant pause, "without a doubt, the very biggest advantage of this whole entire production's the incredible chance if offers to rub shoulders with the other promoter of the event."
"Who is?" John squinted, skeptical.
"Who is only..." Allan waved his hand in a flourish, "Larry Parnes himself! Larry Parnes! The top impresario around England today - creator of Tommy Steele and the 'Oh Boy' television programme...a man, for your purposes, Lennon, even more fuggin' powerful than the Prime Minister himself! If ever a man could get you a string of top-rate gigs, it's Parnes! He could kick-start yer career without so much as a wink and a nudge."
"Isthasso?" John grabbed a ticket and examined it closely. "But we've been down this yellow-brick road before, haven't we, Manager? And yet, no one's winked, and no one's nudged."
"It only takes the once." Allan took the ticket back and wrapped all four of them together with a rubber band, handing the bundle back to John. "And who knows? This might be that once! This could be the start of The Moondogs...or better yet, Long John Silver and his Band of Brigands. It could..."
"We haven't had a chance to bring you up to speed, Al," George interrupted. "We're The Silver Beatals now."
"The...pffft...what?" Allan snapped his head around. "Not fffuggin' likely!"
"No, we are, Al." Stu glanced at John, looking for unity. "We're callin' ourselves The Silver Beatals...as a tribute to Buddy Holly - this bein' the day he died 'n all."
"Beetles!" Allan sputtered. "Sounds as if y'need to be fuggin' exterminated! And despite the fact that The Jac patrons have suggested exactly that, more than a time or two, I'll not have any band of mine goin' about with a dick-head name like Beetles!"
"Look Al," John spat out in double time, "it's symbolic - this name - with a symbolic double entendre in a symbolic sort of symbolic sense, y'know." He liked the name even better now that Allan had rejected it.
"It's crap, that's what it is!" Allan barked. "And it isn't even in vogue, y'realize! Every band around puts their leader in the headliner...Cass and the Cassanovas, Rory Storm and the Hurricanes, Derry and the Seniors, Gerry and the Pacemakers and so forth and so on. Tell them, Harry!" He looked to Bill for support. "I thought we had the whole Long John Silver thing worked out days ago."
"Well, it's The Silver Beatals now." John's nostrils flared. "Get with the iteration, Al. We lead; we don't follow. Tell the other groups to try and mimic us."
"No one laughed at The Crickets, did they, Al?" George insisted.
"No...and d'ya know why, Sonny Jim?" Allan stood with his hands on his hips and waited for a moment. "Because, y'lousy sod, they were Buddy Holly and the Crickets!"
"But if we don't have a leader, what then? What if we're a group?" John asked.
Without dignifying such a ridiculous question, Allan turned and headed to the kitchen, letting the door swing back and forth furiously behind him. With thousands of details to work out before mid-March and with the well-heeled Larry Parnes to woo, Allan had more far important fish to fry than this obstinate bunch of mediocre musicians with a ridiculous stage name.
"You're the journalist, Harry!" he yelled over his shoulder. "You sort them out! Tell them what's what in the world of publicity these days!"
Allan sighed and shook his head. Every day, so it seemed,
The Quarry Men, The Moondogs, the idiotic Silver Beatals grew
more and more annoying.
The leader of Cass and the Cassanovas was either Brian Casser
(Bill Harry) or Brian Cassar (Buskin, Pawlowski, Williams). Buskin
says that Cassar, upon hearing the band name, The Beatles, told
John Lennon that the name was ridiculous and that John should
rename the group "Long John and the Silver Beetles."
According to Allan, the events in this chapter are exactly as
they occurred. On the anniversary of Buddy Holly's death, The
Beatles were meeting in the Jacaranda. Paul had not yet arrived.
As they discussed Holly, Stu suggested a new name for the band.
They presented it to Allan that day, and he rejected it 100%.
All conversation is conjecture.
In August of 2007, just as this book was going into print, I received
an e-mail from Bill Harry, graciously giving me details that I
used for this chapter. He wrote, "I was in Gambier Terrace
flat when John and Stuart actually tried to find a name for the
group. Stuart suggested that they should have something similar
to Buddy Holly's band, The Crickets - they played a lot of Holly
numbers - and they begin to think of insects and came up with
the Silver Beats, The Silver Beatles, and finally, The Beatles."
Although I set the chapter in the Jacaranda instead of Gambier
Terrace, I did include Mr. Harry in this chapter, and I thank
him for sharing his first-hand knowledge with me.
Jude Southerland Kessler