Michael McLeod
Ok I know I have been a little verbose here lately but it's partly because, here at the end of my career, I've been going through old stories, trying to leave something to pass on. I'm terrible at saving and filing things - journalism being a disposable, here today gone tomorrow kind of profession.
But I did run across an old, old story I wanted to share, because given our generation we are the perfect target audience. This story hearkens back to one of the most magical musical through-lines of our generation. I'm not even sure what publication I wrote this story for -- the daily paper or the sunday magazine - but I am thinking it will bring a smile to your faces, as it did to mine - in part for the nostaligia aspect, but also, I'd hope as the teller of the tale, because the main character's humble, caring, been there-done that-over it personality comes through.
PETE BEST
By Michael McLeod of The Sentinel Staff
Orlando Sentinel
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Feb 12, 1995 at 12:00 am
All morning long, I keep waiting to hear a primal scream out of him. If I were a doctor, I’d prescribe it.
But the man is patient to the marrow. Even with the pop-up Beatles book. Even with the bonehead lady. Even when a fan asks him a question that he’s surely heard a zillion times: “So . . . why did they get rid of you?”
A long, inward, world-weary sigh issues from Pete Best -- It’s no primal scream, but it’s got the ambiance -- before he answers: “I wish I knew.”
Then he caps the felt-tip pen, lines it up neatly alongside several others, and slides the black and white glossy of himself back across the table, having signed “Pete Best” just above the caption: former Beatles drummer.
The fan looks at the photo and then up at Best with a sympathetic smile. “I think it should say, ‘the original Beatles drummer,’” she says.
Another fan chimes in: “I always thought you got a raw deal.”
“Yeah, but you can’t keep thinkin about it,” says Best, his Liverpool accent erasing the “g” and "about" sounding like "a boot."
“There’s today and tomorrow,” he philosophized.
Ah, but this being Beatles Expo, what there is, most of all, is Yesterday.
In the ballroom of the Twin Towers hotel, Beatle maniacs of various generations are drifting past card tables filled with Beatles books, Beatles buttons, Beatles audios, Beatles videos. In the far corner, a vocalist who got married at Strawberry Fields and named his son McCartney is singing Love Me, Do. But the main attraction is Best, who has a professorial look to him at 53, with gray twining now through his curly brown hair and a philosophical cast to his pale blue eyes.
He was the drummer for the Beatles for exactly two years, from 1962 to 1964. Then he was kicked out of the band and replaced with Ringo Starr. The Fab Four became a phenomenon. Pete Best became a footnote.
By most accounts, he missed the magical mystery tour mainly because he was shy. He rarely clowned around and refused to abandon his ducks arse pompadour for a mop top. Though his fans were angry (George Harrison got a black eye in a fight over Bests dismissal) and his mum was acrimonious (she’d allowed the boys, ungrateful wretches, to perform in her basement), Best has never lashed out at the Beatles. I decide to give him a couple of chances, just the same.
What if Paul McCartney walked through that door right now? Wouldn’t there be an undercurrent of bitterness between you?
“No,” he says mildly. “It’d be a matter of, How’s the wife? How’s the kids?”
OK, then: Who’s the better drummer you, or Ringo?
“That,” he says diplomatically, “is for the fans to decide.”
We’re talking in between autographs, as the line in front of Bests table shuffles along, filled with people who want Best’s signature ($8 a pop) and a few moments of conversation.
Maybe autograph signings are tacky and fan clubs are for people with no life, but there’s a homey, easy-going atmosphere to this session, much of it thanks to Best’s place in the scheme of things.
There’s a natural empathy for a guy who caught a glimpse of the burning bush and didn’t get anything out of it except singed eyebrows. I notice people saying things to him that they probably wouldn’t say to a real Beatle. One fan shows him the Beatles charm bracelet she’s had since she was 12. Others want him to hold their children on his lap. They ask him: What were they really like? Did you like “Backbeat?” (They were good lads. He liked the soundtrack, but little else).
A man walks up with a pop-up book about the Beatles, opened to a two-page spread of the group playing in the Cavern their home-base Liverpool nightclub. A flip-down tab makes Best disappear and replaces him with Ringo.
Then a woman nudges through the line. “Excuse me, but who are you? My sons in a band called The Boneheads. Do you think he’d want your autograph?”
With the Boneheads, as with the pop-up book, he just sighs and signs.
A man with a hangdog look says he just had to come to see Best. “I got kicked out of a group two years ago,” he says. “I still can’t swallow when I think of it.” Best gives him advice: let it go, don’t dwell on it. Mostly he offers a sympathetic ear. I realize he’s got a quality I’d never think to associate with a Beatle, former or otherwise: He’s a good listener.
There are a lot of teens in the crowd now, and seeing them brings something back to me. I find myself telling Best that in a time when people and things become obsolete overnight, it’s nice to know we created something that won’t ever go out of date.
“We,” right? Like I was the Walrus. Like I was there on bass guitar in the Cavern, along with the rest of my generation -- which, in a way, we were.
A moment later, the woman with the Beatles charm bracelet motions wistfully to the photo Best is about to sign for her.
“Sign it as though it’s still 1962,” she asks him.
Maybe it sounds silly to you. But I knew exactly what she meant.
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