Paul Is Undead: The British Zombie Invasion (38 page)

While she was quiet enough, John was always distracted by her presence. Now, I’m not the kind of person who angers easily, but after six weeks of him spacing out in the middle of a tune, I finally had to speak my mind. One afternoon, after yet another blown take, I pulled him aside and said, “Listen, John, we have a record to finish. Yoko’s getting in the way, and you know it. She has to be gone—at least part of the time.”

The whites of John’s eyes flashed red, and for a second, I thought he was going to do me like they did Mick Jagger and Rod Argent. But then he gave me a sappy smile and said, “I love her, Georgie. She stays.”

I said, “But she’s destroying the—”

His eyes flashed red again, and he yelled, “I said,
I love her
. I said,
she stays.
” And then he grabbed Yoko by the wrist and stomped off to the Abbey Road basement to sulk.

Paul and I discussed the matter for hours and hours, and we eventually decided the best way to get John to cut the cord—or at least loosen it—wasn’t with anger or violence but, rather, sweetness and reason. So one evening, while the lads and I were sitting in the break room eating a late supper, and Yoko was off in the loo, Paul said to John, “Listen, mate, we all know she’s your girl, and we all respect that, but even you have to admit she’s changing up the vibe here, y’know. When we make records, it’s always been just the four of us, and the four of us love one another, and, erm,
having that special sort of love seems to have worked for us, right?”

John said, “Of course. But it never hurts to add a different kind of love to the mix.”

Paul cleared his throat and said, “But, erm, if I can be frank, we don’t love Yoko …”

And then, with a single flick of his index finger, John sent Paul flying through the break-room wall and across the studio, where he landed on and subsequently destroyed yet another guitar amp. John yelled, “You don’t get it, mate! You don’t
really
understand love!”

Very calmly and coolly, Paul stood up, dusted himself off, and said, “Of course I don’t
really
understand love. Neither of us
really
understands love, because neither of us has a beating heart.” Then his fuse finally blew and he yelled, “But one thing I
do
bloody understand is how to make a bloody Beatles record, and the only people who should be in the bloody studio when we’re making a bloody Beatles record are the bloody Beatles!”

John ran through the hole in the wall, picked up Paul’s favorite Rickenbacker bass, and drop-kicked it through the ceiling. Then he tracked down Yoko and they stomped off to the Abbey Road basement to sulk … again.

After a few minutes of silence, George said, “Fellows, if we’re ever gonna get this record in the can, it seems a new plan is in order.” He turned to Ringo and said, “Yoko’s a Ninja. You know the Ninja brain. Any thoughts on how to get her out of here?”

Without saying a word, Ringo walked through the hole in the wall, went to the opposite side of the studio, and sat down at his drum kit. He did a neat little snare fill, then he threw his drumsticks into the air; they stuck point-first into the ceiling. He took a long pull of his ale and said very quietly, “The answer is wonderful
in its simplicity. I think you gents know where I’m going with this.”

Paul said, “I know
exactly
where you’re going with this, mate, but how do you propose we make it happen? Trust me on this: the bird can hit, and hit hard.”

Ringo polished off his drink and said, “As our Mr. Harrison pointed out, I know the Ninja brain. I know what she’s going to do before she does it.”

Paul said, “Doesn’t that mean
she
knows what
you’re
going to do before
you
do it?”

George said, “And she’s a level higher than you, right, Rings?”

Ringo said, “Two levels higher, actually.”

George said, “
Two
levels? You don’t stand a chance.”

Ringo said, “Cheers, thanks for the support, mate. We’ve gotta try something, because what’s happening right here and right now ain’t working. It’s only a matter of time before Johnny starts in with more of that
Two Virgins
shite. Do you want that? Because I sure don’t.” And then, after a pause, he repeated, “The answer is wonderful in its simplicity.”

The three of them took a vote, and it was decided that Paul would go down to the basement and invite Yoko into the recording room for a confab … alone, sans John. Turned out that wasn’t a problem, because she
wanted
to have a little chin-wag with the boys.

Yoko was in the same outfit she’d been wearing since the recording sessions started: studded leather underwear, studded bra, a black hood, and a pair of swords crisscrossed between her shoulder blades. She unsheathed one of her swords, rubbed her index finger along the blade, and said, “I think I know what you gentlemen wish to discuss. I want to discuss it, myself. I respect that you all love John. But please respect that I love John, too. I love him in ways you can’t imagine.”

George said, “I don’t
want
to imagine.”

Yoko yelled, “
Silence, guitar monkey,
” then pulled a Ninja star from who knows where and flung it at him.

The star found its target: George’s forehead. He calmly plucked it out and said, “Right, then. I’m going to the loo.” He looked at Ringo and said, “Would you like to take over now?”

Ringo said, “Gladly,” then he hurled a timpani mallet across the room.

If Yoko had moved a thousandth of a second slower, the mallet would’ve struck her in the eye, and she would’ve been blinded, and the battle would’ve been over before it started. Considering what happened to Abbey Road that evening, that probably would’ve been best for everyone.

Ringo then fell on her with a sense of fury and fire that I sometimes wished he applied to the drum kit. Yoko reached for her sword, but Ringo stepped on her wrist; she let out a
Two Virgins
–sounding scream that broke three of the VU meters in the recording room and caused poor Geoff Emerick’s ears to spurt blood.

The main problem for Ringo was that Yoko had two levels on him, and he’d be able to keep control of the battle for only so long. She threw him off—quite easily, it seemed—rolled out of his reach, then leapt up onto the ceiling like some sort of supernatural cheetah. While she was hanging upside down, she said, “Not a single scratch, fellow Ninja. But I’m not surprised that’s the best you can do, Starkey. John told me your powers are questionable at best.”

I don’t think I’d ever seen Ringo look so hurt. He asked Yoko, “Did John really say that?” I thought he might burst into tears.

Yoko said, “Yes, Ninja Lord. John really said that.”

Once he gathered his composure, Ringo ripped off his striped button-down shirt and flung it over his shoulder. Now, I’d never seen Ringo topless, and was shocked at his muscles, because they
weren’t just muscles; they were muscles on top of muscles on top of more muscles. He gave Yoko his best steely glare—which wasn’t very steely, because Ringo really is a sweetheart—then said, “Yours are the only powers that are questionable, fellow Ninja,” dashed to his drum kit, tore his ride cymbal from its stand, and whipped it at Yoko. She skittered quickly across the ceiling, but not quite quickly enough; the cymbal buzzed through her right biceps, and several dollops of blood dripped onto Paul’s amplifier.

Paul stared at his favorite amp as it shorted out, and whispered, “Yoko Ono must die, y’know.” And then he clenched his fists, raised his arms to the sky, fell onto his knees, and yelled,
“Yoko Ono must diiiiiiiiiie!”
He let loose with a moan that caused chills to run down my spine, then picked up his blood-soaked amp and launched it at Yoko. Since she was nursing her arm wound, she never saw it coming. Yoko fell from the ceiling onto the floor in a heap, landing headfirst. She must’ve had one hell of a hard head, because she didn’t even blink. She stood up and spit out some unintelligible noise; it might’ve been something in Japanese, or it might’ve been some nonsense syllables, but whatever it was, it summoned John from the basement, and John was not happy.

John glanced at the blood gushing from Yoko’s arm and the lump that was growing on her forehead, walked over to Paul, and whispered, “You did this.”

Paul said, “Actually, it was Ringo.”

John said, “Ringo would never commit such a heinous act. I know it was you, because I know you better than you know yourself. For over ten years now, together, we have moved the heavens and the Earth. Together, we have made beautiful music. Together, we have created armies of the damned. And now this. And now,
James Paul McCartney, you must feel the hurt that I feel. You must taste the pain that I taste. My suffering is infinite, and you shall suffer equally.”

Ringo turned to George, who’d just returned from the WC, and said, “Here we go again.”

George said, “Indeed.” He checked his watch and said, “What say we go to the pub for a quick one.” And then they shuffled off, leaving John and Paul alone in the studio to destroy each other, Abbey Road Studios, and quite possibly the world.

After George and Ringo left, Paul said, “John, can’t we discuss this before we dive in? We’re on a contractual deadline with this record, plus a fight’ll cost us a fortune in studio time. Besides, I’m afraid I might actually hurt you.”

John ripped off his own arm and began beating himself on the head. “Look at me, Paulie! What’re you going to do to me that I can’t do to myself?”

Paul took a step backward and said, “Erm, that’s a new one, mate.” Then he took off his sport coat, took a deep breath, and said, “Right, then, let’s get this over with.”

And thus yet another battle began.

GEOFF EMERICK:
By then, I’d been working with the Beatles for the better part of two years, and the novelty had worn off. At first, it was a thrill to listen to George work out an intricate guitar part, or to hear John and Paul overdub perfect six-part harmonies, or to watch the two of them try to beat the stuffing out of each other without causing too much damage to their own instruments. But now, it was all a matter of course:
Oh, look, what a surprise, John’s destroyed another of Paul’s amps,
or,
My, my, my, John’s been decapitated, haven’t seen that one before.
There’s only so much busted gear, or so many stray limbs, one can see before one gets bored.

Sure, the Yoko fight was the worst one yet—the only piece of equipment that didn’t get totally annihilated was George’s skintar, which seemed to be indestructible—but when you put it in the simplest terms, it was just another Lennon/McCartney hissy fit. I was so fed up that, as I watched Paul reattach his feet, and John carry the bleeding Ms. Ono out the door to theoretical safety, I said to George Martin, “D’you think you could get me a job with the Kinks?”

George shrugged, and said, “D’you think
you
could get
me
a job with the Kinks?”

RINGO STARR:
I don’t recall exactly how many injuries Yoko sustained—I know she had a nasty laceration on her skull and at least six broken bones—but like most Ninjas, she was a quick healer, and within a couple of days, things were as they were before, with Yoko hanging out in the studio, and John losing focus, then Paul throwing microphones at John’s forehead. Ah, the joys of being a Beatle.

In all seriousness, the joy was gone. I couldn’t sleep that entire week after the fight, because all I could hear was Yoko’s voice, over and over again:
John told me your powers are questionable, John told me your powers are questionable, John told me your powers are questionable.
I know I wasn’t
, or even Yoko herself, for that matter, but I was still pretty good. It was eating at me, and I was miserable.

So one day, at about five in the morning, without having slept a wink, I decided that if John didn’t believe in me, maybe he should find himself another drummer.

GEORGE HARRISON:
It was about six in the morning, and there’s Ringo, in his pajamas, banging on my front door and yelling, “Georgie!
Georgie, open up!” I ran downstairs, brought Ringo into the kitchen, and prepared him some tea. When I asked him what was going on, he said, “John hates me because he thinks I’m a shitty Ninja, and Paul hates me because I didn’t finish off Yoko the other day, and you hate me because you think I can be replaced by a set of tablas. So I quit.”