I figured that Midtown was as good a place as any to get a good view of the action and stay out of danger, so I had the cabbie drop me at a hotel—I forget which one—on the corner of 43rd and Park, and I settled myself in the lobby, right by the picture window facing Park. The mob was moving methodically down the sidewalk, heading south, literally stomping over anybody who got in their way. Concertgoers were grabbing non-concertgoers and throwing them across the street, and throwing them hard. These people were crashing into the sides of buildings at thirty miles per hour. Eventually there were piles of shattered bodies and puddles of thick blood littering the Park Avenue sidewalks.
Once the mob was gone, I ran west, over to Eighth Avenue, figuring I could flag a cab and beat the crowd down to Greenwich Village. Nope. No way. By then, word had gotten around about the thousands of spaced-out freaks marching throughout the city, mindlessly attacking strangers, and the hacks weren’t stopping to pick up anybody. So I opened my purse, fished out my wallet, a notepad, and a pen, threw the purse in the nearest garbage can, got on my high horse, and ran downtown. I made the two miles in just over fourteen minutes.
The mob was dispersed throughout the downtown area, but they seemed to be congregating in the West Village. I made my way over to this tiny park by Sixth Avenue and Bleecker and climbed up into a small tree. It was the perfect place to be: I had a clear view of the action, and I rightly guessed that the maniacs wouldn’t be looking in trees for people to attack. There were plenty of folks on the street to torment.
The press referred to what I witnessed as the Greenwich Village Massacre, but to me, massacre implies it was a single act that happened quickly, which wasn’t at all the case. The downtown killings were random yet meticulous. I saw more people thrown into buildings. I saw a woman pluck off another woman’s limbs, one right after the other. I saw a person of indeterminate gender rip a young man’s heart from his chest. I saw two teenage girls pick up a Ford Galaxie and throw the fucking thing toward Houston Street; when the car landed, it exploded and started a fire that burned for almost forty-eight hours.
I don’t know if their bloodlust was sated or if the spell wore off or what, but just after midnight, the mob dispersed and, save for the injured, the dying, and the dead, the streets were empty. As the ambulances rolled to the scene, I found a pay phone and made a collect call to the Times office. I feel sorry for whoever answered my call, because after I identified myself, I screamed nonsense for a good minute or two before I could even get a proper sentence out. Once I found my voice, I asked him if he could find out where the Beatles were staying. No, I didn’t ask him—I told him. He put me on hold; then, five minutes later, he said two words: “Plaza Hotel.” There still wasn’t a cab to be found, and I wasn’t comfortable getting onto a subway train just yet, so I walked up to the hotel, which was located on Fifth Avenue and Central Park South. Sixty-some-odd minutes and three miles later, I was standing in front of the Plaza.
There was a gaggle of print and TV reporters, as well as about fifty uniformed police officers, camped out on the street. The cops had cordoned off the entrance, and I’d prefer not to discuss how I made my way inside or how I learned John Lennon’s room number.
The Beatles weren’t in the penthouse, or even particularly high up; their rooms were on the sixth floor, as if they were any other guests. Lennon was in 606. I knocked on the door, and right away he called out, “Whoooo’s therrrrrre?” He sounded practically giddy.
I said, “I’m a reporter from The New York Times. I can put my ID card up by the peephole if you’d like.”
After he confirmed that I was who I said I was, he asked me, “Why should I let you in?”
I said in my sexiest voice, “I want to ask you some questions, and I’ll make it worth your while.”
He laughed, then said, “Love, if I wanted you to be my sex slave, you’d already be my sex slave.” Then he opened the door and said, “I’ll answer two questions. How does that sound?”
I said, “Okay. Why? Why did you do it?”
He said, “Couldn’t help it. Zombie nature. Next question.”
I said, “What exactly is ‘zombie nature’?”
Lennon said, “You want to know about zombie nature?” He walked toward me, and the next thing I remember, I was at home, in my bed, showered, wearing my favorite nightie, undead as a doornail.
The final Shea Stadium concert toll: 1,051 dead, 3,198 injured, approximately two million dollars in property damage, and one New York Times reporter turned into a zombie.
GEORGE HARRISON: After the Shea business, the shows became, oh, let’s call them tense. Not tense from our end, mind you. We knew there wouldn’t be a repeat “zombie nature” performance from Mr. Lennon because Brian burnt that damn keyboard into ashes, and John promised to keep that bloody Poppermost shite under wraps when we were out in public. No, the tenseness came from the crowds, and I can’t say I blame them. If the coleader of my favorite band turned fifty thousand people into killing machines with a G-minor chord and a single nonsense word, I’d suppose I’d feel a bit dodgy about going to their concert myself.
Much of the remainder of the tour was a blur for me—it was Mania, Mania, and more Mania—but something nice happened in California. It wasn’t as nice as it could’ve been, but it was nice enough. Okay, it wasn’t nice at all. Let’s just call it memorable.
PAUL MCCARTNEY: We were all enormous Elvis Presley fans, y’know, and very badly wanted to meet him. I don’t recall if he invited us to his place, or if we invited ourselves, but the day before our concert at the Hollywood Bowl, there we were at his mansion: the four of us, Elvis’s manager Colonel Tom Parker, a bunch of hanger-ons, and the King of Rock ’n’ Roll himself.
We wanted to speak with Elvis without any, erm, prying ears, so I hypnotized Colonel Tom and the other blokes who were lolling about, then Ringo dragged them into the garage and pinned them to the wall with a couple hundred shuriken. I told Rings they wouldn’t wake up until I woke them up, but he said he didn’t want to take any chances.
Elvis was a little bit out of it when we got there, y’know—apparently he’d imbibed a handful of his favorite pharmaceuticals before we arrived—so George took him into his kitchen and slapped him around for a few minutes until he was more lucid.
When Elvis was more or less coherent and comfortable in his living room recliner, John started in on his recruitment speech.
JOHN LENNON: I kneeled down in front of Elvis—it was like he was royalty, and I was one of his subjects—and said, “Listen, King, your life is all about eating banana sandwiches and shoving down all the drugs you can find and playing music and making movies. Now, that sounds like a pretty fookin’ good life to me, mate, and if I’m you, I’m wanting that life to go on forever. And let’s face it: you’re not getting any younger, and you’re starting to get a little soft around the middle, and I dunno how many pills you take to get going in the morning, and I don’t even know what to say about your wardrobe, but it’s all going downhill. You’re not looking as good as you did in the fifties, but the good news is that if you stay on this planet for all eternity, you can get your shite together like nobody’s business.”
He said, “What’re you talking about?”
I said, “What am I talking about? Mate, I’m talking about making you a zombie who’ll walk the Earth forever.”
He said, “What kind of mess are you feeding me? Zombies don’t exist.”
I said, “Look at me, mate.”
He said, “Yeah, I’m looking. So what?”
I said, “My face is gray. Like dead-guy gray.”
He said, “So’s Colonel Tom’s.”
I had to admit he had a point there. I said, “Okay, well, watch this.” And then I took off both of my pinkies and played a little drum fill on his lap. “That’s a zombie thing. Colonel Tom can’t do that.”
He shrugged, then said, “Yeah, but I seen a guy in Tupelo who could.”
I said, “He was probably a zombie.
Lot of undead in the American south, mate.”
He said, “Zombies don’t exist.”
I said, “Yes they do,” then I reattached my pinkies and removed my left leg.
He said, “No they don’t.”
I said, “Yes,” then I reattached my leg and removed my right arm.
He said, “No.”
I realized this could go on all day, so I put my arm back on and said, “Okay, King, let’s pretend. Let’s say that zombies did exist. Wouldn’t you want to be one? Wouldn’t you want to eat your fooked-up sandwiches and take lots and lots of drugs and sing songs and shoot mediocre-to-crappy films forever and ever and ever? Not to mention, you can fook all the birds you want and not worry about getting anybody pregnant or catching syphilis. Doesn’t that sound top-notch?”
He nodded for a while, and I knew I had him. Right when I was about to dive into his neck and start the good ol’ Liverpool Process, he said, “You know what, John? I don’t want to be around forever. Me, I wanna die on the crapper, taking a righteous dump. That’s how my daddy died, and that’s how my daddy’s daddy died. I’m not sure how my daddy’s daddy’s daddy died, but if I were a betting man, I’d wager that he also kicked the bucket while parked on the commode, laying some pipe.”
Really, what can you say to that?
PAUL MCCARTNEY: Ringo freed Colonel Tom and his gang, and then we went on our merry way. I was so depressed by the whole thing that I forced the incident out of my head. As a matter of fact, the next time I thought about it was some twelve years later, when Elvis died on the crapper, taking a righteous dump. Not exactly a kingly way to go out, y’know.
So here’s how the phone call went:
“Good day, you’ve reached Buckingham Palace. How may I direct your call?”
“Yeah, hey, my name’s Alan, and I’m a journalist from Chicago, and I’m writing a book about the Beatles. Is the Queen available? I totally have to interview her.”
“Piss off, Yank.” Click.
Okay, that’s an exaggeration—your typical Brit is far too polite for that sort of behavior, and I’m somewhat more professional than that—but the Queen’s people didn’t exactly roll out the red carpet for me … that is, until they found out I knew a certain thing about a certain someone that that certain someone would probably rather be kept under wraps.
So. Out came the red carpet.
Blackmail usually isn’t my style, but considering how insightful my brief November 2003 chat with the Queen turned out to be, it was worth sacrificing my principles for a minute or two.
QUEEN ELIZABETH II: I had mixed emotions about the Beatles. I was proud of what they had done for our country. They both inspired and instilled a lot of pride amongst our young people. But they also scared the tar out of almost everybody they ever met. I did not know if I should knight them or have an SIS sharpshooter end the madness with three diamond bullets. (I would spare Ringo Starr. Our country has far too few Ninjas; plus, he’s too nice of a lad to seek revenge for the death of his cohorts.)
One of my advisors suggested that the public would appreciate me making the Beatles Members of the Order of the British Empire, and I found that ideal. I would not need to have them knighted or killed. Lovely. Perfect.
PAUL MCCARTNEY: John usually kicked up some sort of fuss at this kind of thing, y’know, but he was cool with the MBE. But something about it rubbed me the wrong way. It was like she didn’t think we were good enough to be knighted. So I suggested that we accept the award; then, at the ceremony, knock her out with some zombie quiffs. That’d show her who should or shouldn’t be knighted.
RINGO STARR: For maybe the first time, John was our voice of reason. He told Paul, “I love how you’re thinking, mate, but messing with the Queen is too big for us. The FYZ would probably go international and kill Rings, and every bloke who can pick up a gun would buy up all the diamond bullets he could find, and we’d be in the ground within twenty-four hours, no matter how many hits we have on the charts. Let’s go get our medals, smile for the cameras, and be done with it.”
Paul said, “Can I at least eat the prime minister’s brain?”
We all thought that was a fine idea, but Eppy talked us out of it.
QUEEN ELIZABETH II: I never heard any discussion about any attempt by the Beatles at mayhem during the ceremony. There might have been whispers about it amongst my staff, but as always, they did a superb job of keeping me insulated and worry free. Even if I had heard about it, I would have been skeptical. I knew the undead could sometimes be irrational, but at the end of the day, they were still polite English lads, and polite English lads do not break wind in the presence of the Queen.
But frankly, I almost wish they would have tried it. See, I would’ve taken great pleasure in kicking their Liverpudlian arses up and down St. James Park, those fookin’ arrogant zombie cunts.
The Queen may have been ignorant of the wind-breaking talk, but Mick Jagger was well aware of it. Yet as he’d lost Beatles battle after Beatles battle, it was clear to all that he couldn’t go it alone anymore. Enter Mister Watts.
A man with no feelings one way or the other toward the undead, Rolling Stones drummer Charlie Watts became Mick’s unwilling recruit in his eternal war against the Fab Four. Frustrated with his role in the various fracases, Charlie was more than willing to discuss with me the most memorable of his forays into zombie hunting after a Charlie Watts Orchestra rehearsal at Resident Studios in London in March 2007.
CHARLIE WATTS: Keith Richards and Brian Jones were heavy into the drug scene, and Bill Wyman was scared of his own shadow, never mind zombies, so when Mick heard that the Fab Four wanted to embarrass Her Royal Highness, I was the only one in the band who Mick could turn to for help … as usual.
The problem with him bringing me on board was that I personally thought John, Paul, and George were top geezers. (Ringo was also a fine bloke, but Mick didn’t have personal issues with Ninjas, so Mr. Starkey was safe.) If the Beatles wanted to eat brains, let them eat brains, so long as they weren’t mine or my family’s or my bandmates’. So did I want to be a part of ending the Beatles’ reign of terror? No. But was I obligated to help my bandmate? Yes. So on December 31, we hit the London streets in search of the three most famous zombies in the world.
Mick was always good at sniffing out the undead, so it took us a grand total of ninety minutes to track down the Beatles: they were all together, hanging out at Ronnie Scott’s Jazz Club, digging on a New Year’s Eve performance by an American guitar player named Wes Montgomery. After the bloke at the door let us in for free—that was one advantage of being a Rolling Stone; I never had to pay a cover charge—we took a couple of seats by the bar. I looked around the crowded club and asked Mick, “What are you gonna do, mate? Attack them in front of all these people?”
He said, “No, no, no, I don’t want any civilians to get hurt.”
I said, “What about me? Don’t you want me to not get hurt?”
Mick said, “Don’t be a baby.” And that’s all he said. None too reassuring.
When the set ended, much of the audience headed to the exit, and Ringo went off to the loo. Mick said, “Guard the door, Charlie. Don’t let anybody in. Don’t let anybody out. It’s time to take out the trash.”
I said, “Take out the trash? What the fook are you goin’ on about, take out the trash?”
He said, “I’m taking out Lennon, McCartney, and Harrison. Sure, they’re brilliant musicians. And sure, they’ve put British bands on the map, which’ll help our band’s cause. And sure, they’re clever, and they’re handsome, and they’re out-and-out cool, but they’re zombies, and thus, they’re trash. Get it?”
I said, “Yes, Mick, I get it. You sound like a fookin’ ponce, but I get it.” He hated when I called him poncey, but I hated when he brought me into shite like this, so fair’s fair. I said, “And what’s this about me guarding the exit? How d’you expect me to stop people from going in and out of the busiest jazz club in all of fookin’ Europe? I�
��m as skinny as a stick.”
Mick said, “Dunno, mate. You’re a smart man. Keep them distracted. Sign autographs or something.”
I said, “Seriously, man, this is the last time.”
He said, “Of course it is. Because it ends here.”
He was always saying “It ends here.” It never ended here.
So I guarded the door … or I pretended to. See, Mick was so wrapped up in starting the clash that I could’ve dropped my trousers and waved my plonker all about, and he wouldn’t have noticed if I was guarding the door or taking a leak.
He quietly started doing his hip-wiggling and lip-pursing, which he claimed was a top weapon against zombies—but I wondered, if it was such a top weapon, why were the Beatles still around? John must’ve had a sixth sense about this sort of thing, because he was up and in defense mode within seconds. When he saw it was Mick, he started laughing, then tapped McCartney on the shoulder and said, “Oi, Paulie, look who’s here!”
Paul turned around and laughed so hard that he spit out a mouthful of Scotch and Coke. He said, “Ooer, Mick’s back. Give us a kiss, love.” And then Paul blew him a smooch.
Mick said, “For you, McCartney, a kiss by any other name is the kiss of death.”
George said, “Christ, Mick, you sound like a fookin’ ponce.”
I yelled out, “That’s what I said!”
Ringo came out of the water closet and yelled back, “Right, good one, Charlie! How’s it going, mate?”
I said, “Great, Rings. Heard Ludwig sent you a new snare drum. How’s it working out?”
Ringo said, “Love it, just love it!”
Mick said, “The lot of you, shut up! On this ground, on the hallowed ground of this hallowed music venue, right now, right this minute, I declare a battle to the death! Mortal versus zombie! Hunter versus hunted! Stones versus Beatles!”
Paul Is Undead: The British Zombie Invasion Page 16