The Beatles (86 page)

It was almost a relief to get down to work on Sunday. Feeling nauseous and unsteady, George arrived at Studio 50 along with the other Beatles for an afternoon dress rehearsal. A troop of mounted policeman patrolled
Seventh Avenue in front of the theater, where two hundred fans had gathered, hoping to talk their way inside.
There was no chance of that
, with all the 728 tickets spoken for long in advance. Normally, a sound check and run-through was staged in front of an empty house, but Sullivan had talked Brian into filming the dress camera rehearsal as an extra performance that would air a week after the boys’ departure, so the audience was already in their seats before the Beatles arrived.

The boys got comfortable backstage in the well-upholstered dressing room, drinking tea and listening to their transistor radios, each tuned to a different Top 40 station. They were unusually relaxed, even for the Beatles—reading fan mail, clowning, almost oblivious to the fact that they were making their American debut. A stack of telegrams lay unopened on a ledge by the mirror. One, marked
URGENT
in red pen and addressed to each of the Beatles individually, caught Paul’s attention, and as he read it his face corkscrewed into a mad grin.

“
It’s from Elvis!
” he shouted to the others.

John looked up blank-faced. “Elvis who?” he asked.

Paul ignored him and read the cable’s contents aloud. “ ‘
CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR APPEARANCE ON THE ED SULLIVAN SHOW AND YOUR VISIT TO AMERICA. WE HOPE YOUR ENGAGEMENT WILL BE A SUCCESSFUL ONE AND YOUR VISIT PLEASANT. GIVE OUR BEST TO ED SULLIVAN.
’ ” He looked up, beaming. “Signed, Elvis and the Colonel.”

The filming came off without a hitch. Standing near the wings, before a closed curtain—his trademark—Sullivan in his role as emcee portentously thanked “
these youngsters from Liverpool
” for their exemplary conduct while in America and appreciated how they would “leave an imprint on everyone over here who’s met them.” Before he could get another word out, the high-pitched screams started.

The curtain opened as the spotlights snapped on. Opening with “Twist and Shout,” the Beatles stood center stage and belted out a tame but rock-solid version against a backdrop of pastel-colored modular designs. It provided a good contrast to their dark mohair suits and blinding smiles, turned up a few watts higher than usual as a hedge against unfamiliarity. If there was any concern about the impression they’d make, however, it was scrapped before the first “c’mon baby.” Every time they grinned, converged on a mike, or—especially—shook their heads, propelling those famous haircuts, the largely female audience screamed its approval. And before anyone had a chance to cool down, the band launched into “Please Please Me,” followed by “I Want to Hold Your Hand.”

Few had known what to expect. Until that moment, all that Americans had really seen of the Beatles were scattered newspaper photographs, depicting them in a crowd or mugging for publicity stills. A Beatles performance was something else entirely, and the power of it, the emotional charge they sent through the audience, moved teenagers in ways they’d never been moved before. For starters, there was the charisma, that boyish charm, which the Beatles (especially Paul) had perfected as an art form. Several times during the set, Paul stared directly into the camera—or, as a viewer might interpret it, directly at
her
—opened up his face, and projected, literally, the most innocent, adorable eyeful that American girls had ever witnessed. Hearts melted in an instant when he flipped that particular switch. John was more coy in how he went about it, but he also knew the right moment to flash a winning grin. From time to time he’d glance sidelong at Paul, then turn it on, just for a few seconds, until he’d produced the desired effect. Nor were George and Ringo wholly innocent of striking a theatrical pose, displaying an innate sense of timing when it came to raising an antic squeal.

So, too, did they flaunt their musical skill. At a time when few rock ’n roll acts got a shot on TV, those with the opportunity rarely appeared with a band. Networks favored young pop singers who performed their hits in front of a studio orchestra. It was rare they were allowed to bring their own musicians. For one thing, most teenage bands couldn’t cut it as pros, and unlike playing a concert hall, where horrible acoustics masked most slipups, TV was unforgiving; for another, a four-piece guitar band usually sounded thin and tinny on TV. Even self-contained bands such as Buddy Holly and the Crickets or Little Stevie Wonder adjusted their act to work with a canned ensemble that included horns and strings. On a show like
Bandstand,
where groups lip-synced to their records, there was no live music at all. Therefore, seeing the Beatles perform by themselves, working, so to speak, without a net, was a fairly eye-opening experience. And how those boys could play! This wasn’t just a hunk strumming chords, like Ricky Nelson. This was a batch of boys as nimble as they were energetic, spanking their guitars and executing tasty licks and fills seamlessly. It would be a mistake to overlook the sexual heat they delivered.

Unfortunately, CBS had been unprepared to deal with miking a proper rock ’n roll band. “
We weren’t happy
with the… appearance,” said Paul, “because one of the mikes weren’t [sic] working.” John’s vocals sounded washed-out and occasionally lost, all the more infuriating because they’d worked painstakingly on sound during rehearsals. Throughout it
all, the Beatles themselves had consulted with Sullivan’s technicians, running back and forth to the control booth after each take. “
Finally,” George recalled
, “when they got a balance between the instruments and the vocals, they marked the boards by the controls, and then everyone broke for lunch. Then, when we came back to tape the show, the cleaners had been round and had polished all the marks off the board.”

It was no better that night when the Beatles returned to Studio 50 for the live broadcast of
The Ed Sullivan Show.
This time, the crowd outside had tripled in size, giving the place the jacked-up feeling of a Broadway opening. There were flowers in the dressing room and visiting dignitaries, including Dizzy Gillespie, who was playing around the corner at Birdland and “
just stopped by to get a look
at them,” and Carroll James, the plucky disc jockey from Washington, D.C. When Leonard Bernstein, an acquaintance of Wendy Hanson’s, swept in with his daughters, George was in the midst of “
having a row
” over the sound with Bob Precht, Ed Sullivan’s son-in-law, who produced the show. Bernstein babbled on endlessly about Washington, D.C., and about how when he was there “
he sung rounds
with Jackie at breakfast.” One could tell from the look in their eyes that the Beatles had no idea who he was or what he was talking about. (A “round” to an English working-class lad meant a piece of buttered bread, and as for Jackie, they were completely stumped.) John turned to Wendy Hanson and said, “Look, love, we haven’t known you long and we like you very much—but could you keep Sidney Bernstein’s family out of this room?”

Outside, the corridor was crowded with other acts and technicians making their way backstage. Whether intentionally or not, Sullivan’s show that night was top-heavy with British acts, including the vaudevillian banjo player Tessie O’Shea and the cast of
Oliver!,
a West End smash that had recently opened on Broadway, written coincidentally enough by Lionel Bart, who was quite friendly with Brian Epstein.

At the very top of the show, Sullivan lumbered onstage and wasted no time in introducing the boys. “
Now, yesterday and today
, our theater’s been jammed with newsmen and press from all over the world, and these veterans agree with me that the city’s never witnessed the excitement stirred by these youngsters from Liverpool who call themselves the Beatles.” A smattering of screams ripped through the audience. “Now, tonight, you’re gonna twice be entertained by them, right now and later. Ladies and gentlemen—
the Beatles!
”

If the Beatles seemed daunted by the prospect of a live American television audience, it did not show. They stood confidently center stage when
the cameras hit them and launched right into a loose, if unimaginative and tightly controlled, version of “All My Loving.” Paul sang it note-perfect, with all the raw edges polished off, as though he’d decided to whitewash it for a more general listening crowd. With effortless determination, George twanged a florid country-and-western riff during the instrumental break, throwing a nice light on his skill. But John’s feeble mike left his voice muted and indistinct, especially with George doubling at Paul’s side for the harmonies. Then, after taking a gracious bow amid energetic applause, Paul soloed on “Till There Was You.” It was a curious choice, considering the song’s saccharine, almost tranquilized, romanticism, as if the objective were to downplay the Beatles’ rock ’n roll roots. There had been so much to-do made over their hair and the mania. A lot of Americans who’d tuned in out of curiosity already had their backs up, anticipating something menacing or vulgar. The song seemed to demonstrate how harmless it all was—and Paul sang it so sweetly, oozing sincerity. How could hard-nosed parents continue to disapprove?

But even the Beatles must have felt the inertia it created. The second it was finished, right after George’s little cha-cha flourish on guitar, Paul jerked sideways on a heel and whipped his finger around a few times to launch Ringo into gear. A clatter of drums exploded into “She Loves You,” and when they hit the
“woooos”
at the end of the chorus, Paul and John exaggerated the shake of their heads, which triggered shrieks of delirium from the new fans. This, girls got especially caught up in. During the song, those at home were given a special introduction to the band, with the names of each Beatle superimposed over a lingering close-up; John came last, and below his name an unexpected postscript: “Sorry, girls, he’s married”—at last a formal acknowledgment of the Beatle’s well-rooted heartthrob status.

When the Beatles returned at the end of the show, the audience was ready for them. Both “I Saw Her Standing There” and “I Want to Hold Your Hand” delivered on the promise of something thrilling. The boys rocked out, giving it the old high-octane treatment, and as the camera cut to the crowd, there were glimpses of budding Beatlemania churning in the seats. Girls were ecstatic, flustered, their faces frozen in rapturous glee. Yet by British standards, it still was a pretty tepid affair. Reports of “
crazy girls, who were going bananas
… screaming, tearing out their hair,” were grossly exaggerated. No one fainted or leaped toward the stage. For that matter, no one even left her seat. A kinescope of the event reveals a fairly
well-disciplined group of kids—screaming, yes, at times bouncing up and down, but never on the verge of pandemonium.

The mad rush took place in living rooms. The viewing audience was estimated at 74 million—
a record, according to the A. C. Nielsen Company
, whose survey revealed that 58 percent of all homes with televisions were tuned to
Ed Sullivan.
But over breakfast the next morning, with newspapers strewn across the table, the tone of the reviews showed markedly in the Beatles’ furrowed faces. The
New York Times’
TV critic, Jack Gould, dismissed the Beatles as nothing more than “
a fad
” while giving them credit for a “bemused awareness” that acknowledged their complicity in the clever affair. “Televised Beatlemania,” Gould wrote, “appeared to be a fine mass placebo,” and he summed up the performance itself as a “sedate anticlimax” to all the hype New York had withstood since the Beatles hit town. Unsure of how to critique the finer points of their musicianship, he deferred to a more learned colleague, who analyzed their vocals as one might a Gregorian chant, citing the Beatles’ tendency to create “
false modal frames
… suggesting the Mixylydian mode.” The other reviews were less convoluted, although similar in opinion. The
Washington Post
thought they “
seemed downright conservative
… asexual and homely.” And
Newsweek
was scathing in its overall appraisal of the Beatles:

Visually they are a nightmare
: tight, dandified Edwardian beatnik suits and great pudding-bowls of hair. Musically they are a near disaster, guitars and drums slamming out a merciless beat that does away with secondary rhythms, harmony and melody. Their lyrics (punctuated by nutty shouts of yeah, yeah, yeah!) are a catastrophe, a preposterous farrago of Valentine-card romantic sentiments.

The
Herald Tribune
carried the story on its front page under the puzzling headline
BEATLES BOMB ON TV.
Its columnist pointedly decried what he heard as the absence of talent in their performance, calling it “a magic act that owed less to Britain than to Barnum.” The Beatles “apparently could not carry a tune across the Atlantic,” he wrote, rating them as “75 percent publicity, 20 percent haircut, and 5 percent lilting lament.”

If it bothered the Beatles that the reviews were largely hostile, they refused to let it show, other than a mention by George who felt the
Tribune
’s
crack about Barnum was “
fucking soft
.” After all, they’d gotten what they wanted: the largest American TV audience in history. “
If everybody really liked us
, it would be a bore,” John told a reporter. “It doesn’t give any edge to it if everybody just falls flat on their face saying, ‘You’re great.’ ”

Privately, Brian fumed. Damning the reviews as a “
vicious attack
,” he peevishly demanded cancellation of the remainder of interviews on the schedule as retribution, though Brian Sommerville eventually talked him out of it. But by the time he chaperoned the boys to a press conference in the Plaza’s Baroque Room that morning, his irritation with the reporters burned clearly on his face. To an official from Capitol Records who was observing the scene, the manager was a changed person. “
Before Epstein came here
he had ice-water in his veins,” he said. “Now it’s turned to vinegar.”