So it’s the second week into the tour, and we’re in the tour bus on the way to Sheffield, and it’s two or three in the morning, and I’m the only one who’s awake, and I think to myself, Right, Macca, if you’re gonna do it, do it now.
Ringo and I were in the back of the bus, George and John were in the middle, and Roy was up in the front. I tiptoed up the gangway and realized that John was right: it’s rough for a zombie to keep quiet. This was a job for a Ninja, but I’d never even considered asking Ringo to get involved; I didn’t think it was fair to drag the new guy into it.
I did the best I could to get up front without rousing anybody, an’ that, and my best was good enough—nobody even stirred. So I’m standing over Roy, moving my hands as slowly as possible, hoping that we don’t hit a bump that’d have me falling on top of him. I get close to the glasses, and closer and closer; then, when I’m, erm, five millimeters away, Roy lets out a loud snuffle, and I almost shit my knickers.
He stirs for a moment but doesn’t wake up. I give it another go: closer to his face, closer, closer. Finally, after what seems like an hour, I pull those glasses right on off, and the guy doesn’t notice a thing. It took all my restraint to keep from running back to my seat, but I kept it cool, y’know, and kept tiptoeing. And I didn’t awaken a soul.
RINGO STARR: Of course Paul woke me up. Zombies aren’t exactly Ninjas now, are they?
PAUL MCCARTNEY: I sat down and stared at my prize. All I could think was, I nicked Roy bloody Orbison’s bloody shades, I nicked Roy bloody Orbison’s bloody shades, over and over. The only thing that would’ve been better is if I’d have gotten Carl Perkins’s blue suede shoes.
The lenses were a bit on the dirty side, so I gave them a quick wipe on my shirt, and then put them on.
And that’s when things went off the rails.
RINGO STARR: Something started rumbling. I couldn’t tell if it originated from inside the bus or from outside on the highway or from the middle of my gut. All I knew was that one second I was on the verge of falling back asleep, and the next, it was as if we were in the middle of an earthquake.
And the smell was indescribable.
PAUL MCCARTNEY: The second the glasses were on, they took on a life of their own, y’know. A stream of red smoke poured out of the stems, and the lenses cracked, then repaired themselves, then cracked, then repaired themselves. The frames went up in flames, and then, just as quickly, extinguished themselves. My face blistered, and my nose hairs got singed.
Then came the bad part.
RINGO STARR: The rumbling got far worse, and people started waking up. Everybody was yelling and screaming and holding on to their seats for dear life. Interestingly enough, Roy slept through the whole thing.
PAUL MCCARTNEY: And then a laser beam shot out of each lens, right at poor Gerry Mardsen. All I’ll say about that is, it’s a good thing he wasn’t wearing a pacemaker, if you catch my drift.
JOHN LENNON: I wake up, and the bus is bouncing around like a roller coaster. I look around, and Gerry’s rolling on the floor, trying to put out the flame that’s lapping up his pajama bottoms, and Ringo’s hitting himself on the head with a pillow—I think his hair got ignited—and Roy Orbison’s fookin’ sunglasses are floating in the air, above everybody’s head, and they drift down to the front of the bus and rest themselves gently on Roy’s face. As soon as they’re back in their proper place, the rumbling stops and all the fires die.
PAUL MCCARTNEY: I could tell Roy knew it was me who’d started the whole mess, and he also knew that I knew that he knew, but neither of us ever mentioned it. And, erm, after that tour, we never spoke again.
ROY ORBISON: All I can say is, never touch another man’s sunglasses.
The Cavern Club is only slightly bigger than a rent-controlled apartment on New York City’s Lower East Side, but come August 3, 1963—with Beatles songs clogging up the European airwaves and climbing up the British charts—Beatles fanatics were more than happy to wedge themselves into the tiny joint in order to get a glimpse of the on-the-rise rockers … especially since this was to be their final appearance in the tiny Liverpool haunt.
It was one of those “I was there” kind of nights; the club held only several hundred, but apparently everybody in the Western world attended the show. But there’s one simple way to tell if somebody’s fibbing: if they were at the gig, they’ve been through the Liverpool Process.
There’s little doubt that Carol Jennings, Lee Reynolds, Morry “Moto” McGee, and a gentleman who goes by the moniker of Elvis Beethoven IV experienced John, Paul, George, and Ringo’s Cavern Club swan song. Their gray pallor and neck scars say it all.
CAROL JENNINGS: I’d seen them play the Cav over twenty times, and as happy as I was that they became stars, I wished they’d play there every week, for the rest of time. But that last show was magical, and they gave us something to remember them by.
LEE REYNOLDS: I was with my girlfriend and two of my mates. We showed up at the club four or five hours before they were gonna go on, and we managed to nab a spot in the front, right by the stage. I’d never been that close to any undead before, and I didn’t realize how powerful and, erm, pungent they are.
MOTO MCGEE: I dunno if the Beatles planned what happened, or if it was a spur-of-the-moment deal. Considering how methodical the whole thing was, I’d venture to say it was the former, although I’ve always suspected that those unruly fans who started screaming, “Ringo never, Pete Best forever!” were the catalyst.
ELVIS BEETHOVEN IV: I was off to the side, stage right, about three meters away from George. I was so wrapped up in the moment and the music and the vibe that I didn’t know what happened until it happened.
LEE REYNOLDS: We were the first ones attacked, and it was John who did the attacking. That was kind of an honor, because he was the guy who started the whole modern zombie thing in Liverpool. He was in a rush, so it hurt like hell.
CAROL JENNINGS: Paul did me, and he was lovely about it. I think he thought I was attractive, because he first kissed me on the cheek, then whispered something in my ear that I will not discuss—it was very personal—then launched right into the Liverpool Process. I know he was especially gentle with me, because my friend Olivia said that when he did her, it hurt more than when she gave birth.
MOTO MCGEE: What surprised me more than anything was the speed of their attack. I was in the back of the room, and they’d transformed everybody in front of me within five or ten minutes.
I was especially impressed by George’s work. I know he was the last Beatle to be turned—there was a big article about it in Mersey Beat the week before—but in terms of sheer numbers, he seemed to be keeping up with John and possibly surpassing Paul.
I could’ve run, you know. I was standing right by the door and was one of the few who had a chance to escape. But I was indecisive, and back in the early sixties, when it came to the Beatles and transformation, indecision was not an option.
So George finished me off, and here I am, a shuffler forever. I don’t blame George. It’s his nature. He’s hungry. He’s vindictive. He can’t help it. He doesn’t want to help it. Now that I am what he is, I understand. It’s impossible not to kill once in a while. Does that make me a bad person? I’d like to think not. But I suspect the families of the ninety-eight people I’ve turned undead might disagree.
I’ve spoken to a number of people who were at the Cavern Club show, and they were thrilled about how things turned out, but not me. My zombie powers don’t seem to be as strong as others’, and I’m not a very good-looking man, so I haven’t been able to find love. Plus, the undead aren’t in great demand in the job market, so it’s been a tough life. If I had to do it over, I’d have run.
ELVIS BEETHOVEN IV: After John, Paul, and George jumped out into the audience and went on their rampage, I jumped up onstage and chatted with Ringo. I said, “Oi, mate, what do you think of all this?”
He kinda shrugged and said, “It’s their thing. It’s what they do. Who
am I to argue?” And then he started in with a groove on his tom-toms. It sounded African, almost tribal; it was like he was giving their attack a soundtrack. Then he told me, “You know, you can avoid this whole mess. There’s a rear exit. You can go. I won’t tell anybody.”
I said, “Are you fookin’ kidding me, Rings-Baby? I want in!” And then I stepped offstage, danced my way through the writhing bodies strewn on the sticky, booze- and blood-coated floor, caught up to Paul, and tapped him on the shoulder. When he turned around, I pointed at the magic spot under my ear and said, “Go to town, Mr. McCartney! Go to fookin’ town!” And it’s been zombie bliss ever since.
I love everything about being a Liverpool zombie; the limb removal alone is fantastic. And call me a perv, but I might be the only being in the world that prefers shooting dustmen over semen. The birds don’t like it, but that’s life. Or death.
ROD ARGENT: Yeah, I was at the Cavern that night. The vibe was weird. I sensed what was gonna happen before it happened, and I didn’t want any part of it, so I snuck outside the club and stayed there until John, Paul, and George were done. Nobody’d reanimated by the time I went into the place, which is what I was hoping for, because I wanted to do a head count.
I was able to navigate my way through the puddles of blood and get an accurate number: 277 Beatles fans were made undead. And it made me sick. And I knew for damn sure that the Cavern Club was now done with zombies, which meant they were now done with the Zombies. Another club we couldn’t play in, thanks to those gits John, Paul, George, and Ringo.
MICK JAGGER: For almost seventy-two hours after the Cavern show, I stood across the street, hidden behind a lamppost, and watched every last one of those newly made undead leave the club. I wanted to take them all down—this wasn’t personal; even today, I want to take down virtually all zombies, no matter how innocent they may be—but for that moment, well, that wouldn’t have been fair. After all, they were just fans following their heroes.
That said, I took mental pictures of all those fookers, and if any of them started getting out of hand at any point, I was gonna wiggle my hips, kiss their chests, and then kill them dead.
I bided my time until October. I probably should’ve bided some more.
GEORGE MARTIN: The boys and I were in the studio, working out the harmonies on a record-label-mandated rendition of “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,” when Mick Jagger burst in. I’d met Mick a few times and thought he was a lovely man … but he certainly wasn’t that day.
He came into the control room, shoved me off my stool, and commandeered the talkback mic. He turned the volume all the way up—even then he knew his way around a mixing board—then yelled, “Zommmmmmmmbieeeees musssssssssssst dieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!” It felt like the building shook. He was a passionate man, that Mick Jagger.
Then he dived headfirst through the window separating the control room from the recording area and landed face-first on the pile of newly broken glass. He stood up, dusted himself off, and wiped the blood dripping from the gash in his forehead. Then, very quietly, he said, “Good afternoon, gentlemen. How are we all doing today?” Mick wasn’t only a passionate bloke; he was also polite.
Ringo said, “Afternoon, Mick. What brings you here, mate?” I think he was trying to stall him so John, Paul, and George could sneak out the back should they so choose.
Mick said, “Oh, you know, I’m in a zombies-must-die bag. Nothing personal. Love your records. Hate your race.”
Ringo said, “What about us Ninja types? Must we die, too?”
Mick said, “No, you’re a big bit of all right.” He pointed at John, Paul, and George. “But I need to rid the world of these buggers.” Then Mick looked at his watch, clapped his hands once, and said, “Right, then. I’m meeting Wyman for dinner in an hour. Shall we get started?”
MICK JAGGER: That was my first time attacking the Beatles in closed quarters, and I wasn’t expecting the sheer speed and ferocity of their defense-turned-offense. There’s nothing Norbert Eliot could’ve shown me that would’ve prepared me for that onslaught.
GEORGE MARTIN: Like most every Beatles battle I’ve witnessed, it was over in under three minutes.
Mick gave it a go, but how is one inexperienced zombie hunter supposed to emerge victorious against three seasoned undead lads? (Ringo wanted nothing to do with it, and he joined me in the control room.) I mean, John threw a piano at the poor man—I think he missed Mick on purpose, but I could be wrong—then Paul picked up an amplifier in each hand and tried to clap Mick’s head in between them. Mick managed to do a drop-roll out of that one.
After Harrison nearly decapitated Jagger with Ringo’s hi-hat, Ringo got on the talkback and yelled, “Oi, lay off my gear, you yobbos! If you don’t cut it out, I’m sending George Martin in there!”
RINGO STARR: The thought of George Martin going into battle was hilarious, and I thought some laughter might cut the tension. I was wrong.
MICK JAGGER: I was exhausted from rolling about the studio and dizzy from blood loss, but I had one last rush in me. I picked up the cymbal that George’d thrown and threw it right back at him. I knew I didn’t have the arm strength to cause any real damage, but I thought I might be able to distract him … and I was right.
George dived to the ground, but I was already there, lying on my back, waiting for him, my lips pursed for the kiss of life. If he’d have fallen on me chest-first, he’d have been dead. As it was, he fell on me arse-first … then he broke wind on my face.
Norbert Eliot never mentioned anything about the effect of zombie farts.
The next thing I remember, it’s three days later, and I’m passed out in Keith Richards’s bathtub—right next to Keith Richards, who, as was often the case, was also passed out in Keith Richards’s bathtub. As Keith snored his booze breath into my face, I thought, I’ve gotta come up with a new strategy.
BRIAN EPSTEIN: We managed to keep both the Cavern attack and the blowout with Mick under wraps; neither story made it into a single newspaper. Sure, there were whispers on the street, but since the lads had never done battle with a musical peer—and since they gave no public indications that they ever would—nobody really took it seriously. Think about it: if word had gotten out, Lord knows there’s no way they would’ve been invited to play at the Royal Variety Performance in November.
I was nervous about it, frankly. Things were going great for us, and the last thing we needed was for John to get cheeky in front of the Queen.
JOHN LENNON: Eppy had reservations, which was fine with me, because I didn’t want to do the gig anyhow. I’m not a fan of the monarchy, and I didn’t know whether I’d be able to keep my temper under control in Her Royal Highness’s presence. I mean, what if I slipped and said something sarcastic?
PAUL MCCARTNEY: John was exaggerating about his temper. He could stay cool when he needed to stay cool, y’know. Like there were dozens of times he wanted to murder Bruno Koschmider—hell, we all wanted to murder Bruno Koschmider—but John kept his teeth to himself. If he’d avoided eating Bruno, I was confident he could avoid eating and/or saying something inappropriate to the Queen.
JOHN LENNON: In the end, Ringo was the one who convinced me it would be okay. He swore he would stop me from doing anything to the old biddy. I wasn’t sure how he’d stop me, but he seemed confident.
RINGO STARR: Oh, I could stop John. Easily. I knew John’s typical mode of attack better than he did. I don’t even think he realized that he used the same game plan over, and over and over again.
When John went after somebody, the speed of his first step toward the victim was astounding. Sometimes I had no idea how he got from point A to point B, no idea at all; for that brief moment, he was as fast, if not faster, than . But if the victim was more than three or four meters away, John could be cut off at the pass—at least, by a Ninja—because his second step was considerably slower. Also, he always faked right, then went left, always. So my thinking was, if he decided to take a trip up to the balcony and pay a
visit to the Queen, I’d be able to at least slow him down enough so that the Queen’s guards could hustle her away.
GEORGE HARRISON: Me, I was ambivalent. The international Mania hadn’t kicked in yet, but it was getting there, and if we got in good with Her Highness, who knew where it would lead? To more Mania, probably.
Part of me wanted to sabotage the show, but I didn’t bother, because I figured Johnny would take care of that in his own inimitable style.
JOHN LENNON: Oh, I had plans, all right. I thought about yanking off my shoe-covered foot and hurling it up into the second balcony—not at the Queen, mind you, but in her general direction. I also considered hypnotizing the rich people in the crowd and commanding them to flip HRH the bird, just for a laugh, but the problem with that was I’d never put more than one person at a time under my spell, so I wasn’t sure I could make a mass hypnosis come together, and if it didn’t work, I’d be standing onstage with my plonker in my hand—figuratively, of course—and we couldn’t have that, now, could we? So I decided to cut them with my wit rather than my teeth.
PAUL MCCARTNEY: Erm, I suppose it was kind of amusing.
GEORGE HARRISON: Frankly, John’s come up with better material.
RINGO STARR: Let’s just say he wasn’t exactly Peter Cook or Dudley Moore.
BRIAN EPSTEIN: At that point, I, like most mortals, didn’t understand zombie humor.
JOHN LENNON: Right before we played our closing number, I gave them what I thought was my scariest look, then said, “Those of you in the cheaper seats, tear your neighbor limb from limb. And those of you in the more expensive seats … do the same fookin’ thing.”
In retrospect, I dunno why everybody made such a huge to-do about it. Only one person actually followed my instructions, and from what I was told, his victim had it coming anyhow.
Paul Is Undead: The British Zombie Invasion Page 11