California Girls vs Russian Girls.

Well, well, well, Christine, the owner of the Pizza Place I perform during Tuesday Date Night, wants me to feature this next Tuesday as a Beatlemania Tribute, singing lots and lots of Beatles songs. Her favorite song is, “Here Comes The Sun,” by George Harrison, also one of my favorites. I imagine a top favorite for any guitar player grounded by the beautiful chord structure throughout the verses. To place a bit of praiseworthy honor upon my independent contractor employer, every time I sing her chosen song, I rephrase the line “Little Darling” with, “Pretty Christine.” A touch of sentiment she highly adores.

Happy Hour Music begins after the day shift at 5:30 pm and continues till 8:00 pm. I take no breaks, just play the full two-and-a-half-hour duration non-stop. I plan on singing only Beatles material, however, if someone requests another artist’s tune, I’ll gladly break the chain, as long as I’m capable and familiar with their wish. For example, Leah, the head waitress has two favorite songs close to her heart, “Runaround Sue” and “Brown Eyed Girl.” However, just last week she heard me sing “Dear Prudence,” and mentioned how much she loves that song. So, rest assured right after I sing, “Back In The U.S.S.R.”, I’ll proceed with, “Dear Prudence,” just like the playlist on the album/CD.

I always get a bit on edge when singing, “Back In The U.S.S.R.,” via my parents expressed much dismay in my choice of listening pleasure and the admired influence those Beatles had on their sixteen-year-old son once they heard the lyrics. A lasting adverse memory stuck inside my mind since 1968. The song is such a great rocker and can get an audience moving on the dance floor, but many times I play at Sun City events, and when portions of the older crowd tower my age at least twenty years, I wonder if rattled nerves will surface. Out of respect for veterans’, I purposely never perform it at Assisted Living facilities.

What was Paul thinking when he penned the chorus, (I’m back in the U.S.S.R., you don’t know how lucky you are boy, back in the U.S.S.R.). Let’s take a look. For starters, if you read my last post, John articulated the whole Beatle shebang was tongue and cheek, they didn’t take anything seriously, including themselves, especially away from the pulled in reigns of Mr. Epstein.

Such an occasion occurred when the fellows departed their manager and headed for Rishikesh, India to study the benefits of Transcendental Meditation. It just so happened, Mike Love, lead singer of the Beach Boys had also joined the attendees, and that got the ball rolling. You see, Paul knew Chuck Berry songs and thought it was clever how Brian Wilson and Mike Love borrowed from Berry’s, “Back In The U.S.A. and Sweet Little Sixteen” to compose, “Surfing U.S.A.” Although both Paul and Mike never formed a true close friendship, each respected the enormous talents of one another and could appreciate the leaps forward their competition recordings had turned gold and caused many great original composed tunes to climb the pop charts.

One morning at the Maharishi retreat, Paul came down to the breakfast table with his guitar and said, “Hey, Mike, listen to this,” and started strumming then began singing the verse to “Back In The U.S.S.R.” Right away, Mike suggested Paul sing about the girls around Russia just the way “California Girls,” had lyrics about East Coast girls, Southern girls, Northern girls, and Mid-West farmers’ daughters. Paul was impressed with the idea and molded the new song into a Beach Boy sound-a-like homage.

Ironically, this is the very song why Ringo quit the band. Three days in a row, Mr. Starr arrived at the studio on time and waited hours mulling around or reading the newspaper without a single word from the other three. On August 22, 1968, after a few run-throughs, Paul tried to show his drummer how better to play the instrument for this new hot rocking number, pushing Ringo to his limit, and without remorse, he walked out claiming he’s through with the Beatles. Paul took over the drums for the night and again the next evening to record, “Dear Prudence.” I’m not sure if Ringo’s timing hit the bulls-eye, or the other busted-up band members avoided the back-beat flair provided by their percussionist, but for the next two weeks, overdubs and mixing pre-recorded takes filled the lads’ agenda lacking a need for drums.

Finally, after apologies and notes assuring Ringo was the best rock drummer in the world, he returned to his spot in the studio and found loads of flowers covering the drums and a flashy welcome back sign.

The first song after rejoining the band, which had microphones stationed around the drum set and tape machines rolled to capture every thump, clang, and pizazz Richard wowed the staff assembly, took place on September 9, 1968. Believe it or not, “Helter Skelter” won the honor. . . the very song Ringo yells at the end, “I got blisters on my fingers.”  One wonders, did the weeks off cause poor Ringo’s musical hands to go soft, and out of practice? No, the true reason weighs on the number of takes our lads ran up before getting it right. The session began at 7 pm and ended at 2:30 am the next morning. Just the one song played for seven and a half hours starting with take 4 – take 21. No doubt, blisters developed. Ringo sat out the next night and on September 11, managed to play 34 takes of Glass Onion. Luckily John shortened the complete song length to under two minutes.

Somethings, and Sadly, Some People Never Change.

Based on reputation as well as repetition, is the New York media biased or even crooked, like one of the 2016 presidential candidates’ claim? This particular candidate has constant quarrels with the New York Post, Time Magazine, and bitter battles with Fox News host Megyn Kelly, although Sean Hannity, another Fox News host, treats the mentioned candidate like a god, but apologized recently for using a fake news story to attack First Lady Michelle Obama. And don’t get me started on Bill O’Reilly. Caution??? You're about to enter the no-spin zone? Shouldn’t we as taxpayers want to enter a no-spin zone? I have never seen a man who loves to interrupt and hear himself talk more than the Factor’s ready to pounce O’Reilly. Geez, that guy practically answers his own questions.   

And then you have something called the Main Stream Media, where most GOP representatives and surrogates tell each other to avoid as best they can, newsroom places like MSNBC and CNN. However, Republican representatives will appear quite often on dominate left-wing programs and receive fair treatment. Not so by Fox News. Very rare will Democrat representatives accept an invitation to appear on Fox. Most of the time Fox has to settle on their own left wing Fox News contributors’, unable to book a Democrat from Congress.  The so-called persistent term” fair and balanced debate” Fox pundits invent through their teeth has significantly lifted onto the air-waves from the caught in the act facts that years ago Fox newscasters’ were anything but fair. Want a good example? I swear, every time political analysis Mr. Juan Williams joins a roundtable discussion on any Fox News program, his microphone volume is weaker than all the others.     

So, it makes me wonder. . . Does New York cultivate journalists from the womb? Do they rely on matching DNA’s identical patterns that breed skeptics, retaliate personalities, and dare I say it, crooked behaviors for the soul purpose to slander, humiliate and seek a most unseemly, but altogether an outrageous and downright shameful goal, to destroy those they interview and achieve breaking news?

Or, is it probable well-known Press reporters’ and TV Correspondents’ offspring duplicate their parents’ characteristics just by watching how mom and dad conduct themselves in the home, long after leaving the workplace? The same kind of New York journalists’ of 1964 Ringo spoke about in the Beatles Anthology documentary. The following is taken directly from the enormous Anthology book, founded on page 120.  Here is what the famous drummer had to say, and I quote, “Being cheeky chappies saved our arses on many occasions, especially then, on the train to Washington, because the guys from the press had come to bury us. These reporters, being New Yorkers, would yell at us, but we just yelled back. When we got to know some of them they said. “’We came here to kill you, but you just started shouting back at us––we couldn’t believe it.’” Up until then, pop groups had been like milk and honey with the press. No, I don’t smoke that kind of thing. And here we were, smoking and drinking and shouting at them.  That’s what endeared us to them.

Likewise, John also had a few words to say in connection with how bad journalists’ relish ripping the good life out of people. Mr. Lennon’s comment, also found on page 120, follows, and I quote, “We’d learnt the whole game; we knew how to handle the press when we arrived. The British press are the toughest in the world––we could handle anything. We were all right. I know on the plane over I was thinking, “’Oh, we won’t make it.’”, but that’s that side of me, we knew we would wipe them out if we could just get a grip. I don’t mind people putting us down, because if everybody really liked us, it would be a bore. You’ve got to have people putting you down. It doesn’t give any edge to it if everybody just falls flat on their face saying, You’re great. We enjoy some of the criticism as well, they’re quite funny, some of the clever criticisms, not the ones that don’t know anything, but some of the clever ones are quite fun. The main thing that’s kept us going when it’s been real hard work is the humor amongst ourselves, we can laugh at anything––ourselves included. That’s the way we do everything–– everything’s tongue in cheek. We’re the same about ourselves, we never take it seriously.”

Imagine how much better the world would be if every single person laughed, and joked, and used clever self-inflicted jabs at ourselves rather than shoved on others bully style. Picture funnyman Don Rickles mopping the floor with insult lunacy stabs all directed at himself, while every pot-shot spurts comic ridicule more hilarious than the last. Imagine if candidates running for office did the same, and pundits, reporters, sports teams, those in the arts of film, music, and handcraft sculptors and painters, co-workers of every business, and classmates in every school. Imagine.

When You Come to a Fork in the Road That Speaks to Your Heart, Take it.

This summer I'm flying to Lisbon to spend 30 days along the Algarve coast. I'll arrive the first of June and return home the first of July. While in Europe, make plans for several pleasure day trips throughout Portugal and Spain to the must see destinations. Next summer, I hope to fly into Manchester, England, and take the train headed for Liverpool. Visit all the hangouts Mayor Chapman thrilled over in my novel. Those favored hangouts among the Beatles before fame and fortune moved Epstein’s popular lads to London. I’ll even do my best to book three nights at the Hard Day’s Night Hotel, just like Chapman––but if I find out their Hotel’s shuttle driver is a redheaded girl named Molly, I’ll donate four copies of my book to each sacred town facility that causes me to break down with emotional tears while standing in the same spots as my musical champions. 

Speaking of A Hard Day’s Night, when asked, “what was your favorite scene?”, the four renowned Beatles each replied the field. Paul also liked Ringo’s unaccompanied bit and enjoyed the background instrumental version of my favorite song, This Boy. A reporter asked Paul if This Boy was a favorite of Ringo’s. Paul explained that Ringo liked the song, but couldn’t recall if it’s their drummer's favorite. The only reason the song gained an extra title as This Boy (Ringo’s Theme) is how it fit so nicely into the film’s segment showing Richie walk out on the group egged by McCartney’s grandfather and went parading on his own. I think another humongous reason they called it Ringo’s Theme simply accounted that Mr. Starr didn’t contribute a solo vocal number as customary, but expected, like all their previous albums, so the honorable title paid him a noticeable tribute.

In conclusion about the Beatles first film, the last final scene Richard Lester needed had George Harrison teaching Shake how to use a straight razor. Humor spilled onto the screen action by placing Lennon into a bubble bath with a toy submarine. Lennon shared that all his lines while inside the tub came out as pure adlibbed. He had no script, just comical wit. Every other passage printed on the film followed the screenplay’s strict guided prewritten dialogue. Lucky for us, we got to see John play John.

Great Minds Think Alike.

Indeed, great minds think alike, and no doubt we have heard the common quote time and time again. This simple phrase even makes a single appearance as dialogue from the hopeful protagonist within the pages of my first novel, Beatlemaniac. I decided to use the quote as my newest post topic based on a whimsical surprise discovered just minutes ago since writing this piece. To say the least, I’m astounded by the news and how it relates to my eBook, so without further ado, let me clue you in:

As I said, moments ago, I came across a discovery. The finding presented itself through a published article that listed the many different stage names used by our Liverpool idols before they settled on calling themselves the Beatles.  A certain tag, Japage 3, pronounced “Jay-page,” was a title I had never heard, and convinced the most obvious reason points to the fact Japage 3 claims to be one of the earliest labels. Notice the number 3 as proof, just three members––meaning no drummer. Still, a branded term that sat totally unfamiliar to me for the purpose in which they identified their group when hired.

This whimsical surprise encounter has to do with how Japage 3 emerged as their band designation. The acronym makes a superior and brilliant reference to the boy's first names and job title. Thus, it clearly reads, John, and Paul, and George, entertainers.

Here is where the awesome link, “Great Minds,” fits in by means of my potential step closer toward the genius creativity inside my Liverpool heroes. An opportunity fell in my lap and opened a few more doors in spring, 2010, playing guitar and singing oldies hits for restaurant owners and activity directors connected with assisted living facilities. To keep accurate records, these places of business required written invoices for my services. Right then and there, my account statements received Head Title as Don Maeder Entertainment, and remain so to this day. But, that link is just a tiny snippet compared to the second your about to learn.     

Beatlemaniac’s first draft was written during the summer month of June 2009 and completed on New Year’s Day, 2011. The book’s antagonist expands home free methods that unfold the perfect crime and after initial success, he exploits his abundant scheme leaving the FBI’s abilities of pursuit in total disarray. As promised months ago, I refuse to be a spoiler in the storyline plot, however, for those who have read my novel, each will surely vouch, Don Maeder’s mind scaled all hurdles reaching the great minds plateau of John, Paul, and George when it comes to forming a meaningful acronym. 

Except, let’s be real in accordance to one huge difference, and as I climb down off my high horse, remember, dear friends, the lads of Liverpool came up with the sensational abbreviation idea while still in their mid-teens. . . Yours truly finally caught up on the incredible wordplay notion at age 57. Nevertheless, it's cool my fictional acronym nearly matches theirs and did so without a clue.      

Perfect weather all year long.

What did the Beatles think of the Algarve, a heaven they lived so close to since they flipped over Miami during their first American tour compared to England’s existence beneath so much rain and fog. Here is the scoop:

http://www.portugaltravelguide.com/index.php/20063-all-our-yesterdays

Next, an interesting tidbit to share about George Harrison and the Algarve.

http://noticias.beatlesperu.com/2006/06/20/george-harrison-leaves-his-mark-in-the-algarve/

Sorry, but that's all I could find. I’m stunned by the lack of sightings and stories from others living in the Algarve who might have shared interesting memories when a member of the Beatles crossed their paths on the sand or in a restaurant. Shucks, maybe the rock star lads avoided Europe’s most popular beaches, and yet, maybe the Fab Four learned a thing or two using simple disguising technics while filming Help, and brought them along so no one would recognize the famous Liverpool idols enjoying time off. Besides, how could they enjoy a change of scenery stuck "in a train and a room, a car and a room, and a room and a room". . . like Paul's Grandfather quipped sarcastically in the movie, A Hard Day's Night.    

Oct 9, a much more meaningful 76th Birthday celebration, had John Lennon survived and recover.

Oh, man. Such a tragic and inexplicable loss with no rhyme or reason that tore apart our emotions. A tragic that put to an end and destroyed the amazing, embraceable music that very well may have continued to astonish music lovers the whole world around with number one hit songs year after year. Great songs lost forever.

I remember that awful day our hero John, the witty one, passed away as vivid as if the horrible, and senseless shots fired occurrence happened last night. I was visiting my girlfriend in Anaheim, and her apartment complex laid on a busy main thoroughfare known as Magnolia Ave. No surprise Magnolia Trees planted ages ago decoratively landscaped both sides the entire length along this congested four-lane highway. Directly across the street from her building sat a convenient store we scrambled to and from whenever the munchies came a calling or sweet tooth urges had taken mind control. Dodging traffic in a mad dash, and avoiding jaywalking citations was by no means appealing, but my God, the corner crosswalk looked further away than two goal posts on a football field. 

Well, unfortunate as it is, my sweetheart had been hooked on cigarettes quite a few years before we started our romance and inhaled about a pack a day. I hated everything her bad habit brought to the relationship. . . the smell, the smoke, the cough, the continual tax increase expense, and the coincidental worst timing moments she realized her pack had emptied from the last time she lit up. It happened again mid-evening, December 8, 1980, a few hours after dinner. Her puppy-dog eyes and cute little pouty mouth ushered the plea, “Will you be my knight in shining armor and run across the street for a carton?” In an instant, those lips of hers magically shape-shifted into the most luscious, kissable pucker west of the Rockies, making me a goner and melt in her arms. Me oh my, the things we do for love.

I slipped back on my shoes and rushed out the door happy to fulfill her request. By estimation, the task lingered less than ten minutes, but she had met me more than halfway with a deep sadden despair of inner anguish splashed over her concerned face. She wanted to comfort me just in case I heard the unthinkable news at the mini-mart. I saw the emotional pain in her eyes and asked, “What’s wrong?” She knew I hadn’t yet caught the atrocious news. “Hold me tight,” she said, “and let’s return inside my place quick, I have something to tell you.” And tell me she did in the gentlest and most loving way possible.

I cried the same massive broken-heart tears each of us shed when a best friend unsuspectedly leaves our side, never to return, knowing their soul has lifted upward to a much better place, leaving the shell of the recognized and significant body that once upon a time loomed so special in our lives. How true, being together with a best friend makes everything better. Although I never met John, I prized him like a best friend.

Two days later, my lover bought me a commemorative magazine all about John Lennon that received shelf space displayed on the news racks at the grocery store checkout lanes. Most of the other publications jumbled in the same area featured a $1.00 reasonable price tag. However, the unique memorial journal dedicated to the honor of Mr. Lennon boldly garnished a price tag spouting $4.50, an unheard fee for such an item. In contrast, the day after George Harrison lost his battle to cancer, his tribute magazine posted a whopping $25.00 cost.  Packed neatly away, I still have the December 1980 periodical on John. Rest in Peace, dear John, dear friend, and tell George we miss you both very, very much. 
Please feel free to leave any comments or corrections and share these articles plus the blog's website with your friends, especially Beatles’ fans. You and they might also enjoy knowing more about my Love Songs CD and my novel, BEATLEMANIAC. Just click on the “My Shop” tab near the top of this page for full details.    

The Day Heaven Prearranged How True Love Would Flourish Inside My Heart.

While thinking about this week’s post, I became curious what type of job or commitment the Beatles had on their plates the exact day my Angel Face came into our world. The love of my life took her first breath behind her parents chosen Northern California maternity ward walls on March 24, 1965, a rather busy day for the lads of Liverpool.

Two days earlier, far from North America, the fab four boarded a flight leaving Salzburg, Austria, along with the entire film crew of Help, on account, out of country location shots were in the can (movie slang for cut, print it.) Yes, every open-air scene in the sunny blue skies of the Bahamas, and the snow-covered mountains within ideal proximity to the charming Hotel Edelweiss, built in the quaint city called Obertauern, had accomplished the required steps based on the film’s storyboard illustrations. These illustrations took the storyline, written by Charles Wood and Marc Behm, toward parallel tributes of the Marx Brothers classic, Duck Soup, and the James Bond 007 series––which United Artists also owned the rights to the later. Oh, a few side notes for you. My Angel’s favorite movies feature Sean Connery as agent 007, her favorite number. Who would have thought seven years later, Paul would lend his talent, in a whimsical bang-bang, shoot em up, kind of way, come full circle with James Bond 007 and compose the title song for Live and Let Die, starring Roger Moore in 1972. Brian Wilson also had been sought by big-wig producers of a new James Bond movie around September 65, and asked him to write a title piece for their film. The song he came up with was recorded on November 17 at United Western Recorders in Hollywood and used a working title called, Run James Run, however, the movie producers rejected it, and Brian renamed the song, Pet Sounds, as in the heading of the fabulous album released by the Beach Boys. Before we finish up with Austria, you may also be surprised to learn that Paul developed the best flair on top of snow skies, reaching close to expert status according to the boys’ instructor. But remember, according to director Richard Lester, George was the best actor and nailed every line of dialogue. However, in relation to snow skies underfoot, it suffices to say, some crew members fell into miscalculated spills requiring a broken bone cast over an arm or leg, which all four band members felt terrible about, but were happy to sign.

Okay, onward to the most significant day I treasure, 3/24/65. On this date, the greatest rock band began filming Help’s first scenes on Homeland ground a few miles from Twickenham Studios. Lights, cameras, stage crew, actors, extras, and even the catering van rallied by caravan and traveled through the streets of London then parked a parade of massive film industry trucks out of view alongside St. Margaret’s Road. Hours later, all focus was placed on four modest terrace homes, numbered 5, 7, 9, and 11 Alisa Ave. The same row of houses each Beatle entered, but once inside, appeared to have gone through a major remodeling as a single room luxury suite. Of course, the actual interiors of those Alisa units were unchanged and never used. The luxury suite in the film, merely a large prop built by the movie studio construction workers, added comedy. The enormous prop was erected underneath rows and rows of high wattage commercial spotlights inside a Twickenham closed set sound-stage. Alisa Ave simply supplied the entrance and exit continuity of the lads’ neighborhood habitat when coming home, or going off to work. Once the footage of action and lines from the script passed approval, everyone tore down the location set and returned to the studio for their make-believe living room scenes. By the way, a house known as #8 Alisa Ave, London, England sold for £780,000 in May of this year. Nice going, Mr. and Mrs. Seller.    

In closing, it’s no coincidence Tiffany Nicole Masters, my protagonist’s fiancée, shares the same birthday as my beloved. Throughout the love interest pages of this novel, every description, every personality trait, and every aspect of magnetism that glows and shouts devoted praise around Agent Wilson’s beautiful companion, fall at the feet of my loving best friend and form majestic compliments suited right in line with the girl of my dreams. Just read the book’s dedication she accurately received, and you will distinguish how my heart gained heavenly true love, thanks to her genuine nature.