by Bob Spitz
Unfortunately, CBS had been unprepared to deal with miking a proper rock ’n roll band. “We weren’t happy with the… appearance,” said Paul, “because one of the mikes weren’t [sic] working.” John’s vocals sounded washed-out and occasionally lost, all the more infuriating because they’d worked painstakingly on sound during rehearsals. Throughout it all, the Beatles themselves had consulted with Sullivan’s technicians, running back and forth to the control booth after each take. “Finally,” George recalled, “when they got a balance between the instruments and the vocals, they marked the boards by the controls, and then everyone broke for lunch. Then, when we came back to tape the show, the cleaners had been round and had polished all the marks off the board.”
It was no better that night when the Beatles returned to Studio 50 for the live broadcast of The Ed Sullivan Show. This time, the crowd outside had tripled in size, giving the place the jacked-up feeling of a Broadway opening. There were flowers in the dressing room and visiting dignitaries, including Dizzy Gillespie, who was playing around the corner at Birdland and “just stopped by to get a look at them,” and Carroll James, the plucky disc jockey from Washington, D.C. When Leonard Bernstein, an acquaintance of Wendy Hanson’s, swept in with his daughters, George was in the midst of “having a row” over the sound with Bob Precht, Ed Sullivan’s son-in-law, who produced the show. Bernstein babbled on endlessly about Washington, D.C., and about how when he was there “he sung rounds with Jackie at breakfast.” One could tell from the look in their eyes that the Beatles had no idea who he was or what he was talking about. (A “round” to an English working-class lad meant a piece of buttered bread, and as for Jackie, they were completely stumped.) John turned to Wendy Hanson and said, “Look, love, we haven’t known you long and we like you very much—but could you keep Sidney Bernstein’s family out of this room?”
Outside, the corridor was crowded with other acts and technicians making their way backstage. Whether intentionally or not, Sullivan’s show that night was top-heavy with British acts, including the vaudevillian banjo player Tessie O’Shea and the cast of Oliver!, a West End smash that had recently opened on Broadway, written coincidentally enough by Lionel Bart, who was quite friendly with Brian Epstein.
At the very top of the show, Sullivan lumbered onstage and wasted no time in introducing the boys. “Now, yesterday and today, our theater’s been jammed with newsmen and press from all over the world, and these veterans agree with me that the city’s never witnessed the excitement stirred by these youngsters from Liverpool who call themselves the Beatles.” A smattering of screams ripped through the audience. “Now, tonight, you’re gonna twice be entertained by them, right now and later. Ladies and gentlemen—the Beatles!”
If the Beatles seemed daunted by the prospect of a live American television audience, it did not show. They stood confidently center stage when the cameras hit them and launched right into a loose, if unimaginative and tightly controlled, version of “All My Loving.” Paul sang it note-perfect, with all the raw edges polished off, as though he’d decided to whitewash it for a more general listening crowd. With effortless determination, George twanged a florid country-and-western riff during the instrumental break, throwing a nice light on his skill. But John’s feeble mike left his voice muted and indistinct, especially with George doubling at Paul’s side for the harmonies. Then, after taking a gracious bow amid energetic applause, Paul soloed on “Till There Was You.” It was a curious choice, considering the song’s saccharine, almost tranquilized, romanticism, as if the objective were to downplay the Beatles’ rock ’n roll roots. There had been so much to-do made over their hair and the mania. A lot of Americans who’d tuned in out of curiosity already had their backs up, anticipating something menacing or vulgar. The song seemed to demonstrate how harmless it all was—and Paul sang it so sweetly, oozing sincerity. How could hard-nosed parents continue to disapprove?
But even the Beatles must have felt the inertia it created. The second it was finished, right after George’s little cha-cha flourish on guitar, Paul jerked sideways on a heel and whipped his finger around a few times to launch Ringo into gear. A clatter of drums exploded into “She Loves You,” and when they hit the “woooos” at the end of the chorus, Paul and John exaggerated the shake of their heads, which triggered shrieks of delirium from the new fans. This, girls got especially caught up in. During the song, those at home were given a special introduction to the band, with the names of each Beatle superimposed over a lingering close-up; John came last, and below his name an unexpected postscript: “Sorry, girls, he’s married”—at last a formal acknowledgment of the Beatle’s well-rooted heartthrob status.
When the Beatles returned at the end of the show, the audience was ready for them. Both “I Saw Her Standing There” and “I Want to Hold Your Hand” delivered on the promise of something thrilling. The boys rocked out, giving it the old high-octane treatment, and as the camera cut to the crowd, there were glimpses of budding Beatlemania churning in the seats. Girls were ecstatic, flustered, their faces frozen in rapturous glee. Yet by British standards, it still was a pretty tepid affair. Reports of “crazy girls, who were going bananas… screaming, tearing out their hair,” were grossly exaggerated. No one fainted or leaped toward the stage. For that matter, no one even left her seat. A kinescope of the event reveals a fairly well-disciplined group of kids—screaming, yes, at times bouncing up and down, but never on the verge of pandemonium.
The mad rush took place in living rooms. The viewing audience was estimated at 74 million—a record, according to the A. C. Nielsen Company, whose survey revealed that 58 percent of all homes with televisions were tuned to Ed Sullivan. But over breakfast the next morning, with newspapers strewn across the table, the tone of the reviews showed markedly in the Beatles’ furrowed faces. The New York Times’ TV critic, Jack Gould, dismissed the Beatles as nothing more than “a fad” while giving them credit for a “bemused awareness” that acknowledged their complicity in the clever affair. “Televised Beatlemania,” Gould wrote, “appeared to be a fine mass placebo,” and he summed up the performance itself as a “sedate anticlimax” to all the hype New York had withstood since the Beatles hit town. Unsure of how to critique the finer points of their musicianship, he deferred to a more learned colleague, who analyzed their vocals as one might a Gregorian chant, citing the Beatles’ tendency to create “false modal frames… suggesting the Mixylydian mode.” The other reviews were less convoluted, although similar in opinion. The Washington Post thought they “seemed downright conservative… asexual and homely.” And Newsweek was scathing in its overall appraisal of the Beatles:
Visually they are a nightmare: tight, dandified Edwardian beatnik suits and great pudding-bowls of hair. Musically they are a near disaster, guitars and drums slamming out a merciless beat that does away with secondary rhythms, harmony and melody. Their lyrics (punctuated by nutty shouts of yeah, yeah, yeah!) are a catastrophe, a preposterous farrago of Valentine-card romantic sentiments.
The Herald Tribune carried the story on its front page under the puzzling headline BEATLES BOMB ON TV. Its columnist pointedly decried what he heard as the absence of talent in their performance, calling it “a magic act that owed less to Britain than to Barnum.” The Beatles “apparently could not carry a tune across the Atlantic,” he wrote, rating them as “75 percent publicity, 20 percent haircut, and 5 percent lilting lament.”
If it bothered the Beatles that the reviews were largely hostile, they refused to let it show, other than a mention by George who felt the Tribune’s crack about Barnum was “fucking soft.” After all, they’d gotten what they wanted: the largest American TV audience in history. “If everybody really liked us, it would be a bore,” John told a reporter. “It doesn’t give any edge to it if everybody just falls flat on their face saying, ‘You’re great.’ ”
Privately, Brian fumed. Damning the reviews as a “vicious attack,” he peevishly demanded cancellation of the remainder of interviews on the
schedule as retribution, though Brian Sommerville eventually talked him out of it. But by the time he chaperoned the boys to a press conference in the Plaza’s Baroque Room that morning, his irritation with the reporters burned clearly on his face. To an official from Capitol Records who was observing the scene, the manager was a changed person. “Before Epstein came here he had ice-water in his veins,” he said. “Now it’s turned to vinegar.”
For their part, the Beatles handled the press with complete poise. Ostensibly, the conference was called to announce their three-film deal with United Artists, but the boys, as usual, played it strictly for laughs. John drew chuckles first, revealing that his choice for a leading lady was Brigitte Bardot. How about you, Ringo? someone called out. “I don’t mind meself,” he said, “as long as it’s not Sophia Loren. She’s so tall, I’d have to climb a ladder to kiss her!” The reporters tried in vain to get Brian involved, but he declined, redirecting their attention to the four boys. When confronted with the charge of creating “false modal frames,” John grinned and said, “We’re gonna see a doctor about that.” A woman on the other side of the room asked George which of them was sexiest. “Our manager, Brian Epstein,” he fired back, which failed to placate her. “Who chooses your clothes?” she persisted. “We choose our own,” John said. “Who chooses yours?” Refusing to be intimidated, she replied, “My husband. Now tell me, are there any subjects you prefer not to discuss?” John leaned close to the microphone and without missing a beat said, “Yes, your husband.” The room erupted in appreciative laughter.
It went on like that, back and forth, for nearly three hours, with a volley of one-liners that befitted a Friars Club roast. The Beatles seemed able to handle anything thrown at them, never remotely becoming rattled by the barrage of caustic questions. The result was a public relations sensation. Over Brian’s mild objections, the Beatles continued to charm a professional lynch mob that had come to bury them. Not one word was said about the crummy reviews, nor was another bad word written. By the time Alan Livingston interrupted the questioning to present them with two gold records, the Beatles had climbed back into America’s good graces.
[III]
On Tuesday, February 11, the Beatles and what seemed like most of the New York press corps left for Washington, D.C., where the boys were to give their first live stage show in America. It had been snowing heavily for several hours, and plans to fly were scrapped at the last minute in favor of a private sleeping car that Brian Sommerville had chartered expressly for the trip. The train had nothing on the limos and luxury planes they’d grown used to, not even on the Liverpool-to-London express. It was a dingy, malodorous cubicle, yellow from cigarette smoke and cramped with rows of dilapidated leather seats blistered by springs. None of that, however, seemed to dampen the festive spirit. Grateful to escape the confinement of their hotel room, the Beatles were at their uproarious best. John and Paul fluttered about the train, chatting with passengers and mugging for the press. George, still recovering from his illness, climbed up into a luggage rack, where he managed to take a catnap. And Ringo, juiced by the unstoppable scene, swept out the car with a broom before grabbing half a dozen camera cases from photographers, then strolled up and down the aisle, shouting, “Exclusive! LIFE magazine! Exclusive! I am a camera!”
It was their last chance to unwind before a tumultuous—and rather nightmarish—evening that started the minute they reached Washington. Word had leaked that the Beatles were arriving by rail, and an estimated three thousand kids, spurred on by local disc jockeys, jammed the platform when the train pulled into Union Station. A giant banner dangled above the crowd: WWDC WELCOMES THE BEATLES. Flashbulbs exploded ceaselessly, reporters converged on the train, pushing, shoving. There was complete chaos, with fans and press battling fiercely for position. The police, befuddled by the melee, stood uncertainly on the sidelines as Paul led the others out of the wheezing car. Somehow the Beatles fought their way through the crowd and into two waiting limos that skidded along the slushy streets past the capital’s illuminated landmarks. The sky over the city held an immense and shifting light, reflecting off the monuments, pale as pieces of a child’s board game. “Just like in the movies,” Ringo muttered as the scenery whipped by. To their right, in roughly the direction of the Potomac, they passed a mansion that looked like the White House. Or maybe not. While they debated the accuracy of the discovery, the cars pulled up short in front of an enormous concrete building.
The Washington Coliseum was the biggest venue they’d ever played, a crusty old 18,000-seat downtown arena that catered mostly to ice hockey and boxing events. Brian hadn’t quite prepared them for the size of the place, nor had he warned them about the uncustomary staging. It had been set up like a boxing match, which meant they’d be playing on a platform in the round, a layout that required moving their equipment every few songs.
Three opening acts warmed up the crowd—a British group called the Caravelles, their old friend Tommy Roe from the first U.K. tour, and the Chiffons.* The Beatles’ plans to watch the girls’ set were scrapped when Murray the K showed up unannounced and determined to broadcast his show from their dressing room. It came almost as a relief when it was time for them to play.
In most theaters-in-the-round, performers enter through tunnels situated under the floor, but because of the mechanics of the ice rink, there was no way to get the Beatles onstage without marching them through the audience. So Harry Lynn, the promoter, sent out three disc jockeys in Beatles wigs to distract the crowd, while the boys, flanked by forty ushers, charged up the aisle to a deafening blast of screams. A blinding explosion of flashbulbs blanketed the arena in light. Then another wave of screams, louder and more unruly, echoed off the walls. “The reaction was so overwhelming,” Paul gushed breathlessly minutes after the show, calling it “the most tremendous reception I have ever heard in my life.”
From the moment they hit the stage, the Beatles knew this would be no ordinary show. The atmosphere was electric and vaguely dangerous, with a fight-crowd current that harkened back to places like Wilson Hall in Garston. Fearlessly, they huddled together on a postage-stamp-size stage, with fans spilling right over the edges onto it. It was like “an obstacle course,” between the tangle of arms reaching toward them and the cables snaked across the floor. Ringo teetered precariously atop a circular skirted platform that, under ideal circumstances, was supposed to have functioned as a turntable for his drum kit. The amps, perched on stands, threatened to topple under the slightest provocation.
“Good evening, Washington!” Paul screamed into a mike, giving the other guys time to plug in and catch their breath.
A camera crew was filming the show for a future closed-circuit broadcast, and from the opening bars of “Roll Over Beethoven” the audience—mostly teenagers—“went berserk.” Several dozen police lining the stage “eyed the audience uneasily,” then leaped into action, tackling fans who tried to vault toward the band. “All the Beatlemania ingredients are here in Washington,” reported NME, including, the paper noted, “the throwing of jelly beans”—not the soft, squishy jelly babies, as was the custom back home, but their American cousins, with a hard outer shell. “That night, we were absolutely pelted by the fucking things,” George recalled. “To make matters worse, we were on a circular stage, so they hit us from all sides… waves of rock-hard little bullets raining down on you from the sky.” It made “the ring-side seem like Omaha Beach,” according to a journalist covering the show. “Every now and again, one would hit a string on my guitar and plonk off a bad note as I was trying to play,” George said.
In the long run, it didn’t make a lick of difference to the quality of the show. The Beatles’ performance that night was lit by something special from within. They played with a ripping, amphetamine intensity last glimpsed in Hamburg that went far beyond their usual slick, tightly controlled set. “Ringo, in particular, played like a madman,” writes Albert Goldman, “revealing a fire that nobody had ever glimpsed before beneath his wor
kmanlike surface.” It was less a put-down of Ringo’s ability than a revelation of the implicit power contained in his solid backbeat. Something primitive had taken hold of him that converted every thrust, every blow, into energy. Ringo’s arms flailed feverishly and his head shook with a demonic pendulation, making him seem at times almost spastic, at others dynamic and Herculean. It didn’t even matter that “the acoustics were terrible” or that the equipment had to be hastily rearranged after every song. Incredibly, it never interrupted the flow or the tension gripping the arena. By the finale, a fantastic sweat-stained rendition of “Long Tall Sally,” the capacity crowd was on its feet, screaming uncontrollably in one mad, sustained roar.
Afterward, the Beatles were dizzy from exhaustion—and exhilaration. Ringo, especially, was in thrall of the fans. “They could have ripped me apart and I wouldn’t have cared,” he related backstage, drenched in sweat. “What an audience! I could have played for them all night.” As it was, the entire act lasted a mere twenty-eight minutes.
But, after all, it was an embassy party, a very la-di-da affair and not at all the kind of crowd that appealed to the boys. They had been told it would be “a quiet little party” for the overworked embassy staff, but as it turned out, the building was packed with an obnoxious, aggressive mob—the “full quota of chinless wonders,” as George Martin described them. “People were touching us when we walked past,” John recalled, none too pleased by the situation. It seemed, in Ringo’s estimation, as if the Beatles were on exhibit, “like something in a zoo.” Paul did his best to “exchange pleasantries” with the guests, but that became too much even for him. When a “slightly drunk woman” wrapped her arms around him and demanded to know his name, Paul responded, “Roger. Roger McClusky the Fifth,” before ducking out from under her clutches.