The Beatles And A Mass of Humanity

This blog has been going for about 13 months and yet there hasn't been a single post about The Beatles, the pop/rock group and phenomenon that has been a major part of my life and my psyche for 25 years since the day in about 1988 when a boy in his early teens brought up on mainly commercial 1980s music suddenly encountered music that was largely new to his ears but which had been created 25 years previously. The music I'd known up to that point mainly featured the 'self-conscious synths' of the New Romantics and the 4-minute single created by gifted songwriters but with an overemphasis on production and electronic technology. Through the compilation 'A Collection of Beatles Oldies... But Goldies', which spanned the singles and most famous album tracks from 1963 to 1966, I marvelled first at the 2-minute immediacy of 'She Loves You' and 'I Want To Hold Your Hand' from '63, so direct, exciting and driven by guitar and voices that were young, raw and uninhibited with the power and energy to immediately excite the ears and lift the spirit. From there came the still catchy but more world-weary 'Ticket To Ride' from '65 and then the next sensation of 'Eleanor Rigby' from '66, 3 years on from 'She Loves You' but a quantum leap in terms of progress. Rather than go through the incredible Beatles story and try to make it my own, I'm instead going to just jump to one small but significant aspect that perhaps typifies both their appeal and what we are all striving for.

In around 2010, I watched some video clips of Beatles expert Mark Lewisohn, a veteran of many reference books and radio specials about the group, discussing a forthcoming trilogy of Beatles books called 'All These Years' that he was writing and which would eventually offer the complete story up to the split in unprecedented detail and drawing from truly obsessive full-time research. Even when I saw the length of the first one released in late 2013 (900 pages, with an 'author's cut' edition of 1700 pages!), I didn't really believe that there could be much information that a seasoned Beatles expert like me hadn't already come across. Tackling the author's cut this year, it turned out to be a 3-month odyssey of steady reading and one fantastic revelation after another, giving a much clearer sense of why the Beatles became so big. Bear in mind that this first book of the trilogy, entitled 'Tune In', only takes the story up to the end of 1962, where The Beatles are on the cusp of fame but without a hit single to their name, so the utter powerhouse that The Beatles have already become is at this point without the force of the now-legendary Lennon-McCartney songwriting partnership and their incredible creations that have been with us 50 years and are probably going to last for as long as music is appreciated.

What comes across clearly from 'Tune In' is that The Beatles were stars from about 1961, 2 years before anyone outside their immediate part of the world (the north-west of England) and one city in Germany had ever heard of them. After an incredible Hamburg apprenticeship which encompassed 415 stage hours in 14 weeks from August-December 1960, followed by 503 hours in 92 straight evenings from April-July 1961 and would include 3 more visits of varying lengths in 1962, the basic elements of their appeal were already there, and they had a following which was intensely loyal and already showing signs of being obsessional. They weren't the only band to log this approximate number of hours on stage in Hamburg, but crucially they were the ones who seemed to take full advantage of the remarkable opportunity to grow that the relentless Reeperbahn slog, which began on the 20-year anniversary of the first Nazi bombs hitting Liverpool, afforded. To cut a very long story short, they learned incredible stagecraft, being able to take all the various elements of the music they loved and meld them into something hard rocking but also soulful, soaring harmonies of incredible beauty contrasting with a relentless beat and the raw brilliance of John Lennon's driving rhythm guitar. They weren't afraid to branch out and play all kinds of songs, including show tunes and music hall numbers. They provided cabaret and comedy, able to ad lib when there was electrical failure in the venues they were playing, but they also had 'the toughness of hard lives in dangerous places', as Lewisohn's book puts it. Their shows seemed to have everything and encompass the history of music and the experience of life in every note, chord and beat.

2 glorious nights at 'The Cavern', the legendary venue on Mathew Street in the centre of Liverpool that in its original form was a converted fruit warehouse cellar used as an air-raid shelter during the Second World War, exemplified The Beatles' appeal. (For the record, the Liverpool tourism industry rather dishonestly omits to mention that the Cavern that exists now is a replica, built a few doors down from the original, which was demolished in the 1970s to make way for a car park!) The venue itself had a pungent aroma (odour) that none who played there have ever forgotten, a mixture of disinfectant, damp, fruit from the warehouses, toilets, perspiration, body odour, soup, hot dogs and cigarettes, an awful but incredibly evocative combination. The Beatles played theirs and the club's first all-night session in summer 1961, with all the usual raw energy and breathless atmosphere heightened in this '6-act, 10-hour party'. One can only imagine what it was like, all the smells previously described intensified even further by even more heaving bodies than usual and the cooking, serving and consumption of large amounts of scouse (onions, carrots, potatoes and meat), once the favourite dish of Norwegian sailors and which gave Liverpudlians their nickname. There are overflowing toilets, pouring ceilings and walls, blown fuses, and lots of musical equipment being lugged through the crowds and into the crowded club.

In early April 1962, they managed to top this night with a private party aptly called 'The Beatles For Their Fans', a farewell before their 3rd 'tour' of Hamburg, which saw them become headliners at the newly-created Star-Club. The night was everything they hoped it was going to be, and the 650 or so who attended were treated to a set by the leather-clad Beatles who, after an interval and then an announcement by resident D.J. Bob Wooler, suddenly appeared in their new mohair suits, which garnered a mixed reaction initially from the fans who couldn't quite let them evolve from what was familiar to them but which was eventually accepted as inevitable to ensure progress. Aside from their usual set, The Beatles and support act The Four Jays jammed the jazz standard 'Mama Don't Allow' for a full 20 minutes, including George on trumpet (which he couldn't play at all), everyone taking solos and improvisation to the fore. John and Paul later don Santa outfits (in the middle of spring!) and George wore a silk Noel Coward dressing-gown and Christmas-cracker hat. At the end of this incredible night, the Beatles delivered a special pre-planned parting message along the lines of 'don't forget us', the group having a genuine fear despite their apparently untouchable status that in their absence the fickle audiences might move on to someone else, and step down from the stage into a version of what is later to be called 'Beatlemania'. 

Local music newspaper 'Mersey Beat' wrote this up as their 'greatest-ever performance', and personally it may well have been the highpoint of their collective life together, especially because they were about to be dealt a blow that even these tough Liverpool boys would find it hard to recover from, namely the death at 21 of their friend and former band member, the gifted painter Stuart Sutcliffe. On an April night in this tiny space in the world, unknown to anyone outside its immediate vicinity, there was all kinds of magic created, largely through human connection created by music and the sense of belonging to something, which I believe is that vital and sometimes elusive element that may be the key to a happy life. For all their success, perhaps this is one of the last times that it felt real, with the fans showing a remarkable appreciation for the group's incredible talent without the wild-eyed and berserk hysteria that would eventually drive The Beatles away from live performance into  becoming the studio band of 'Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band', a million miles away from sweaty Cavern nights.

This particular Cavern night in 1962 was most bittersweet for drummer Pete Best, whose tenure in the group was, probably unbeknownest to him, coming to an end. He was front and centre of one of the many highlights of the night, as the Beatles added a new gimmick to their stage act with the song 'Peppermint Twist', which reflected the still-popular but ultimately short-lived dance craze. Pete came out front from behind his drums to both sing and dance the song, with Paul taking over on drums and George playing Paul's left-handed bass upside down. Best was joined in the twist by a fan and regular 'Cavernite' Kathy Johnson, and as the song went on and on without ever looking like it was going to stop, Pete and Kathy began a romantic partnership that has so far lasted more than 50 years. Was Pete, who was sacked as drummer just before stardom but who has maintained his health, sanity and privacy while eventually getting financially-rewarded through royalties from the 'Beatles Anthology' project, the ultimate loser or the ultimate winner? Without wishing to lapse into cliches, the music world and the public were the ultimate winners of the Beatles story. Without attempting my own version of a biography, I will probably include a few interesting Beatles vignettes as blog posts in the future.

Please leave a comment if you have anything to add to this.

Goodbye Cruel World (written in 2006)

‘goodbye cruel world, I’m leaving you today, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye’.

5am, an early start. Too excited to think, too excited to sleep. An end, something exciting. Like the day the world changed. I watch those videos endlessly, everything’s going fast, a day no one will ever forget.

The room is neat. Everything has been thrown away or put away and there’s a minimalist look to it. I love my white room the way it looks now.

‘goodbye, all you people, there’s nothing you can say, to make me change my mind, goodbye’.

Flick the t.v on and try to wade through all the twee crap on British breakfast tv. An explosion in an oil refinery. Trouble in those other parts of the world. Those parts where people live lives of meaning, where their every possession is precious, means something special, and their family is dear to them. They have something to wake up and fight for. I have a catalogue of failure, envy, fear, bitterness, inferiority, despair and hopelessness. But most of all, my life’s not real. I have no real need to wake up beyond basic functions.

I tried to pick myself up earlier this year, tried to be enthusiastic, used a couple of drinks to boost my confidence but soon realised that sociability brought certain obligations. Suddenly, lots of people phoned me and when I wanted to sit alone, they would talk to me in excited tones about trivial things, and my migraine would come with a vengeance. In the end, when I couldn’t take it any more, I had to get out of it in the only way I could and in the only way that would put them off. Inappropriate behaviour did the trick but instead of going round one of their houses and throwing their telly out of the window which would have really upset them and incurred damage and costs, I simply organised a gathering at my house, let it build up and when a gentle, well-meant barb about my shithole of a room came my way, I went ballistic and threw my own telly out of the window. I shouted at them to get the fuck out and like the nice, harmless people they were, they did so without any resentment and ill-feeling towards me. That was that, and since then, I’d barely spoken to anyone. My family would ring and I sounded upset and unhappy. They would talk to me up to a point, with practical suggestions about jobs, but then they’d give up. That’s enough, all you need to know. Except that last week was my birthday, and I made an effort and looked good for my parents. I was too busy to see the rest of my family, planning.

‘goodbye cruel world, I’m leaving you today, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye’.

‘goodbye, all you people, there’s nothing you can say, to make me change my mind, goodbye.

Into the fresh air, a cool breeze. Perfect day. Go to the park, one of many in the capital. See nature, get my mind right. Not right for tomorrow, right for today. Walk around, shout with happiness at how I suddenly have no inhibitions. I see someone coming towards me and start to laugh. What will they do? What can they do? Go past the lake and think about how water is my friend. Or will be soon. In a few hours, I’ll be travelling through the water. Water boy, that’s me. Floating through, nothing violent, it’s dark and no one’s around. I won’t affect anyone, won’t upset anyone. And for now, in the park, safe and sound, I shrink a couple of feet and I’m in the big park with my brother and sister and I run and run and it’s beautiful. I don’t stop and don’t have any walls, any protection. I don’t need it. And I feel like that now. I’m floating. I sit and smell the fresh air. England in the autumn is fantastic. It’s cool and I’m cool. My temperature is just right.

I had a fever when I was very young and I felt sick and hot. For 4 days, I was catatonic, intermittently screaming and sobbing. Ever since then, I’ve suffered from a build-up of pressure which transforms itself into heat. I’ve relived this fever many times and I’ve made myself cold to take it away, so I’ve never been the right temperature. And like the dinner party in March, pithy humour aimed in my direction has brought on the heat.

‘goodbye cruel world, I’m leaving you today, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye’.

‘goodbye all you people, there’s nothing you can say, to make me change my mind, goodbye’.

Today, there’s no heat and no cold.


(link to Pink Floyd song)
 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fxCUyy_aVzA

The Delightful Truth About Bullfighting

Bullfighting ('corrida de toros' in Spanish) is alternatively a 'blood sport', 'barbaric spectacle', 'fine art' or 'culturally important tradition' which has existed since at least the 4th century and very possibly for many centuries previous to that. Its continuous existence was largely unopposed until recently, but in just the last 15 years polls have seen a dramatic spike in those opposing its continuing existence, primarily in Spain and Mexico. Approximately 100,000 bulls a year are killed in bullfighting, which is actually 'bullkilling' to many as by the time of the ritual, the bull is in a terribly-weakened and defenceless state. The bulls chosen to 'fight' are bred on ranches for one specific purpose, and while the more aggressive bulls might be considered better for the fight itself, many matadors request more placid ones to naturally lessen the chances of getting seriously injured themselves.

Bulls are generally peaceful animals, only getting aggressive when threatened and like most animals reacting largely on pure instinct rather than malice. In the 2 days before the fight, the bulls are fattened up to make them slow, wet newspaper is stuffed in their ears so they can't hear anything, vaseline is rubbed on their eyes to blur their vision, cotton is put up their nostrils so they can't breathe well, and a needle is stuck through their genitals and a caustic solution rubbed on their legs to hinder their balance and prevent them lying down. While in the truck being transported to the scene of their ritual slaughter, their horns are strapped to the ceiling to stop them moving and freaking out, and drugs are administered to them (either uppers or downers depending on how their handlers want them to behave). The bulls are then kept in a dark box for 2 days before suddenly seeing a 'light at the end of the tunnel' and naturally charging maniacally towards this light, suddenly finding themselves in a bullring with cheering crowds baying for blood and entertainment, and trumpets blaring to signal the start of combat. The circular ring stops the bull finding a corner to hide in, which is its natural instinct at this point. 

In the first act of the 'fight', the 'picador' (a low-level 'torero' on horseback) lances the bull between the shoulder blades with a 2-inch-thick 'pica', hitting a gland which releases adrenalin and weakening its neck muscles to make its head hang so that the 'matador' (Spanish for 'killer'), can get to its heart more easily to deliver the 'coup de grace' final blow. In the next stage, the 'banderilleros' arrive on foot with barbed, harpoon-like darts which are plunged into the bull's body to weaken it while they also run it in circles to get it confused and disoriented, leaving not a great deal for the main torero (commonly known as the 'matador' in English-speaking countries), who is the 'rock star' of the bullfighting spectacle, to do to win the 'fight'. The matador has 15 minutes to kill the bull and is given 3 'avisos' (time warnings). If the bull isn't dead by then, the matador is disgraced (don't you just love the skewed idea of what is disgraceful?!). He arrives with his red cape, (the colour chosen to hide blood stains rather than to anger the bulls, which are in fact colour blind), his sword and his posturing, and the elaborate movement of the cape further disorientates the bull. The 'death blow' of the sword between the shoulder blades is supposed to instantly sever the aorta, the main trunk of the arterial system, if accurately delivered. However, this rarely happens with this first blow and the bull instead starts to bleed out profusely, its heart and lungs punctured and blood streaming through its nose and mouth. Further blows are administered quickly to 'mercifully' kill the bull (isn't it touching that mercy is suddenly an issue?). After the contest is won, the bull is dragged out in chains (either dead or barely alive) and cheered for its bravery, (it has been known for some bulls to be spared from death and put out to stud for the rest of their days).

After the bull's death, the crowd can petition for an exceptionally brave matador to be awarded one or both of the bull's ears and sometimes even its tail. The bull is skinned, and its 'fresh meat' (consumers love fresh meat, don't they?) sold in the aftermath of the contest. Up until 1930, the picadors' horses, which are generally old and docile, also suffered horrendously from being gored (pierced with horns) by the trauma-crazed bulls, and they used to have their vocal cords severed in advance to avoid them screaming in pain and spoiling the crowd's enjoyment and the nobility of the spectacle. If the horses are hurt, they were quickly patched up and sent back out, sometimes multiple times. Thankfully, this part has been modified, and now the horses wear a padded, protective covering called a 'peto'.

The above of course is the case against bullfighting. But what is the case for it? As stated in the first paragraph, to some it is a fine art and a cultural tradition that shouldn't be lost. But for those who are pro-bullfighting, ask yourself this? If bullfighting had never been invented and was somebody's new idea in 2014, would you be for it? Rituals exist largely unchanged from times that we would consider barbaric. In true hypocritical or at least ignorant fashion, we talk with disgust of those primitive times when the public would routinely watch public executions as entertainment, parents would bring their children to the Colisseum to watch Christians being fed to lions in the Roman 'bread and circuses' days, and whites in the Southern states of the U.S.A. would write to family and friends of witnessing 'a great barbecue' after witnessing blacks being burned alive. Matadors are brave but that doesn't necessarily make them heroes, and the evidence suggests that it is a relatively easy process to dispatch the hopelessly-disadvantaged bull and restore the 'honour' of the matador. It is true that modifications have been made, such as the protection given to the horses involved in the ritual, and I'm certainly open to hearing more arguments in favour of bullfighting but I've failed to find too many among the mind-bogglingly large amount of information on all topics available on the internet.

In 1991, the Canary Islands became the first Autonomous Community in Spain to ban bullfighting, and in 2006 Spain's second city, Barcelona, banned it, followed by 38 other  municipalities in the province of Catalonia. Interestingly, and reflecting the tribal nature of humans, this has led to other parts of Spain, notably Barcelona's great rival of Madrid, making a point of stating their great pride in the ritual and demonstrating particular resistance to a possible outlawing of it. In 2010, bullfighting was banned from being shown on some state-owned TV stations until after 10pm, so as to stop children watching what is presumably a noble spectacle only for adults. The number of bullfights in Spain fell dramatically from 2,500 in 2007 to just 500 in 2013, partly through genuine lack of demand but mainly owing to government cuts to small towns who now can't afford to hold them. In 2010, the central government in Spain moved the jurisdiction on bullfighting from the interior ministry to the cultural ministry, making a complete ban less of a possibility. It is well-known that bullfighting is funded by public money, with the bull breeding industry receiving a high of almost 600 million euros in 2008, some coming from European funds to livestock. It is not alone among European cultural endeavours to be funded in this way of course, and the large revenues generated through tourism are often used as arguments to justify its existence.

As for the question of suffering, some will point to studies which have shown that experiencing physical pain is not automatically synonymous with suffering as they affect different centres of the brain; however, the bull's distress is surely plain for all to see, and veterinarians have tested the bulls at various points of the contests and confirmed huge spikes in adrenalin. One 'bandallero' was quoted in an interview that the 'magical' bulls used in the contest have a special cell in their body that prevents them from feeling pain, but can this really be believed?

The use of animals for food is justifiable to some degree and certainly would be if their killing was found to be always done quickly and painlessly, but unlike food, entertainment is in no way essential, and bullfighting is a spectacle that originates back to an age which is incomparable to today. So, I refer back to an earlier question. Would bullfighting be invented now if it hadn't been already??

The Pros and Cons of Smoking

Parent to their teenage child:

'Now son/daughter, let's do a little cost-benefit analysis of smoking in case you're thinking of taking it up as your new hobby like your friends.

Costs- a cigarette is tobacco leaves (which are held sacred in their natural state in many ancient tribes and used in rituals) wrapped in paper and covered in around 600 approved chemicals, 70 of which have been found to cause cancer. Among the delightful chemicals that those lovely people at the tobacco company put in your expensive cancer sticks are those used in batteries, candle wax, industrial solvent, insecticide, toilet cleaner, rocket fuel, sewer gas, and just for added effect, arsenic! Smoking kills around 5 million people a year worldwide and is expensive and heavily taxed. Aside from the smell, which the smoker generally isn't exposed to because their sense of smell is affected, your teeth are going to turn yellow, you won;t be able to run a flight of stairs without wheezing, your lungs will go black, your blood pressure will be increased, the optic nerve in your eyes will be affected as will your reproductive system and numerous other internal systems, and you are going to face a vastly-increased chance of heart disease and heart-related chest pain. 

Benefits- you'll look f***ing cool and everyone will think you're a true rebel!'

At the end of the day, we all self-medicate, but maybe a little investigation and analysis of the root causes of our suffering might be an idea.