pop-culture pilgrimage, part two

Enough lies. I’ve placed one hand square on the Bible, right on the fat part. This all happened.

Spring ’03—midway thru my semester abroad in Galway, Ireland—I jetted to England, home of shepherd’s pie and John Cleese and yellowed teeth and London Pride ale, which I sampled (see: drank prodigiously) on the flight over. The steward, addressing my query re: taste/quality of London Pride, gruffed at me that Pride puts hair on the chest. Since I don’t shy away from passive-aggressive challenges very easily, I ordered one up, man that I am. Beer tastes delightful when it’s free, and in ’03 those rinky-dink flights in Europe hadn’t yet imparted the Nazi no-meal policies of our American carriers, meaning that we could sup and drink to our belly’s content without financial consequence. And sup and drink we did. By we, of course, I mean myself.

The short flight from Dublin dumped me off in London, where I was slated to meet with up with one of my high school buddies. I rubbed my chest hairs and surveyed London with eager eyes, quite happy to be alive and out of Chicago. Europe suited me. Still does. Writing this entry pains me in small ways, because I’m in here and London is there.

Anyway, I got antsy and booked a train to Liverpool to visit the land of the Beatles, ringing Greg to inform him that I’d be returning in three to four days. Seven hours later I’m in Liverpool's Lime Street station, giddy and anticipatory. I footed about, drinking it all in, wondering if everybody in this town owns a blue-collared shirt. One might call Liverpool the Detroit of the UK, as it's a place reeking of petty crime, rotting dreams and desperate nostalgia. I loved it immediately.

Let’s fast-forward past the boring stuff.

Here’s what happened to me:

1) I met Allan Williams, first manager of the Beatles (and the man who brought them to Hamburg!), at Beatle mecca The Cavern Club. He was slugging frightening amounts of red wine and spilling all over the place. First thing he slurred at me was so ironical it made me laugh out loud: “Get a…get a feckin’ haircut!” This coming from the manager of four mops who threatened 50's crew cut sensibilities! Looking back, though, I suppose I see his point. At the time my hair was hovering somewhere in the seven- or eight-inch range. I looked like a goddamn hippie, the worst kind. When the night ended and they blinked lights for last call, Allan—sans proper judgment, sans equilibrium—was still burping about, so I guided by arm that unsteady man to his abode, which was only a few short blocks from the Cavern.

2) First night in town I popped into the Jacaranda, a small club the Beatles played during their formative years. I wasted no time befriending an older man named Bernie Evans, who went to school with Paul and George long before anyone cried at the sight of them. He owned the club, if I remember correctly. Bernie sniffed out my fanatical Beatle lust (which I made no effort to hide) and offered to take me downstairs into the old playing space. The basement was not available to the general public—to open it up, Bernie keyed two heavy doors and led me down a flight of dimly-lit stairs. First thing I noticed were the walls (pictured above, filmed below), all heavily painted in wild colors. These murals, Bernie said, were painted by John Lennon and Stu Sutcliffe (original Beatle bassist) in the summer of 1960. I freaked. 1960! These murals preceded their Cavern Club days! I took a few pictures, thanked Bernie, stalked into the night in search of more adventure.



3) Saw Strawberry Fields, the old Salvation Army house.

4) Saw Penny Lane.

5) Saw Mendips, Lennon’s childhood home.

6) Spent two hours on a park bench overlooking Mersey River.

7) Last morning in town, I journalled at a patio table outside the Cavern Club, killing time before my noon train. Fore I could even get a full sentence down, a sleek, black car rolled up from the seeming nowhere and pulled to a stop in front of the venue. Then a stout man in a very nice suit stepped out of the rear door, followed by two men with cameras. The first man posed in front of the Cavern bricks for a series of photographs. I watched the shoot, thinking, “you know what, I’ve seen that man! Who is he?” Then it came to me: Gerry Marsden of Gerry and the Pacemakers! He’s the dude who sang “Ferry Cross the Mersey.” Maybe you’ve heard it. Anyway, I went up and introduced myself to Gerry (pictured above, at right, with Dusty Springfield and Brian Epstein), posed for a photo. Then back to the car and he’s gone, a fitting ending to my Liverpool adventure. Four hours later I’m in London, the world in my palm.
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