calabrie

Latest Posts by calabrie

what if people over a certain height had a special currency called tall coins that short people didn’t know about. And one day you’re walking with your friend (huge) and she drops something and you pick it up and say what is this and she says oh that’s my tall coin don’t worry about it. But you did worry

The Beatles at the ABC Cinema in Huddersfield, 29th November 1963 - part 3 (part 1, part 2, part 4, part 5) (x)

"All My luggage"😂😂😂😂

Interviewer: When you look back on all of that now, how does it seem to you?

Pattie Boyd: It feels as if, I’m living, a second life now. That was such a- almost like a fantasy life.

Interviewer: Do you miss it?

Pattie Boyd: Sometimes I do. Yes.

Beatles biographers saying totally normal things about John and Paul: A compilation

"‘John always used to say,’ Yoko told me at one point, ‘that no one ever hurt him the way Paul hurt him.’ The words suggested a far deeper emotional attachment between the two than the world ever suspected - they were like those of a spurned lover." -Philip Norman

"No matter how much he loved Yoko, the Gibraltar ceremony seems like something close to an on-the-rebound reaction to the loss of his first great love, Paul McCartney." -Chris Salewicz

"Almost in each other’s face, John and Paul quickly gained an unusual closeness, little or nothing hidden. Paul noticed that ‘John had beautiful hands." -Mark Lewisohn

"With Yoko present, Paul McCartney’s reign as Lennon’s princess was doomed.” -Peter McCabe

"John's in love with Yoko," Paul confessed to a reporter from the 'Evening Standard', "and he's no longer in love with the three of us." But for all intents and purposes, he might as well have been talking about himself." -Bob Spitz

'I thought Paul's was rubbish,' opined Lennon, saying that he preferred George's All Things Must Pass. McCartney studied the article with the morbid fascination of a jilted lover receiving a kiss-off letter. -Howard Sounes

“Lennon could have abandoned the (US) immigration case and returned to Britain, and possibly even to McCartney, but that would have meant accepting that his relationship with Ono was over.”-Peter Dogget

"Theirs was a volatile relationship right up to the end, and was fraught with emotional summits and valleys. While the connection between them was strictly heterosexual, it was deep, passionate, and highly explosive." -Geoffrey Giuliano

"John was insecure, and when he saw Paul he wanted to look cool. He gave up all his friends for Paul. Aunt Mimi recalled that John jumped around the kitchen when he told her about his new friend. She sarcastically said to John that they were like ‘chalk and cheese’ meaning how different they were. And John would start hurling himself around the room shouting ‘Chalk and Cheese!'’ smiling and laughing. He was fucking in love with him, he adored him. She understood he found the partner of his life." -Thomas Rhodes

“The last week in August, Paul McCartney returned to Liverpool, tanned and noticeably slimmer. In addition to starting school, he came back to begin a relationship he seemed destined for: hooking up with John Lennon." -Bob spitz

“Seeing Lennon focus on Ono rather than him [Paul] was as devastating as it would have been for Cynthia Lennon to witness the couple making love.” -Peter Dogget

"paperback writer" is a song about a guy who wants to be a paperback writer who is writing a fictional book about a different, unrelated guy who also coincidentally wants to be a paperback writer, and I feel that we've been neglecting how well this captures paul's approach to songwriting

JOAN BAEZ and BOB DYLAN during THE ROLLING THUNDER REVUE TOUR

George Harrison visiting Bob Dylan in Woodstock, New York (Nov. 1968)

I heard someone walk into the room and, assuming it was Barry Imhoff or Gary Shafner, I kept pounding away at the keys of the electric typewriter.

“Hi,” Bob Dylan said, pulling a chair over to my desk and slumping into it. “So have you seen George lately?”

Startled by his voice, it took a few seconds for me to respond. “Not since his tour a year ago,” I said.

“I really like George,” he said, reaching into his jacket and pulling out a cigarette.

I nodded my head. I liked George, too.

“So, I was thinking about it. I remember you from the Isle of Wight.” He turned his head and smiled at me, sideways. “I can’t believe I forgot my harmonicas. That was cool when you flew in on the helicopter.”

“Yeah, that was pretty cool,” I agreed. I wasn’t really sure how to talk to Bob, so I just followed his lead.

“That was a weird show,” he said. “I hadn’t performed in a long time, and I was pretty nervous.”

“You didn’t seem nervous,” I said, hoping to reassure him.

“Yeah?” he turned his head to the side and looked at me, narrowing his eyes, measuring my honesty. Then he seemed to relax. “Well, that’s good. But I sure felt it.”

He laughed, then, almost shyly, and averted his eyes. “I’m glad you’re on the tour,” he said. “Any friend of George’s is a friend of mine.”

- Chris O’Dell, “Santana (September - October 1975)”, Miss O’Dell: My Hard Days and Long Nights with The Beatles, The Stones, Bob Dylan, Eric Clapton, and the Women They Loved

we as a fandom really underexamine how often crushing loneliness is a recurring theme in paul’s songwriting

"their relationship is strictly platonic" "they're so in love" well, more importantly, they are fucking weird and abnormal about each other in an undeniable way

Paul mentioning gay rumors?

So I made a post about this a few days ago but I didn't include the clip:

For context, right before this Paul is talking about his interest in Magritte and the inspiration behind the Apple logo and the Robert he refers to is Robert Fraser. Right after he says "i'm quite secure about my sexuality" he mumbles "yeah, don't know about that" as the audience laughs. And yes, like, to be charitable he could just be referencing the fact his friends still found it "weird" to go on a trip to Paris with a gay man but it's the first time I've heard Paul making reference to his sexuality that's not just him claiming he's straight, 'ungay', what have you (he also immediately brings up the s&m joke he had made earlier to brush past what he said). And I think it would be fair to say one interpretation is paul acknowledging that he wasn't exactly as "secure" about his sexuality as either he thought at the time or is now

Any Day Now, Bob Dylan's songs sung by Joan Baez, 1969. Cover design and illustrations by Joan Baez. x

You're telling me being in close proximity to this in his teens and twenties meant nothing to John Lennon, a man fighting bisexuality? Sure. Sure. Let's just go out and tell lies.

Photo of The Beatles in Hamburg, 1962, colorized.

The Beatles | And Your Bird Can Sing (Isolated Laughter Track)

paul: john likes me ?!?! but ...😳 hes a boy ... and ... IM a boy >_<

george: uughh how can i get them to see im just as good of a songwriter as them🚬🚬

john: okay ringo now hit the second tower

1979 is now up there with 1968 in my “WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED BETWEEN PAUL MCCARTNEY AND JOHN LENNON” years.

You don’t just make something as joyful, teasing, naughty, and romantic as McCartney II out of the blue… You don’t just then come out of retirement out of the blue and starting boogying to Double Fantasy + Milk and Honey tracks COINCIDENTALLY, do you? DO YOU??

This is driving me a little crazy. What is your favorite conspiracy theory here?

Sections of Ticket To Ride, by Larry Kane, which address anti-Semitism:

Early in the '64 tour:

About an hour into the flight, a word reached my ears that I couldn't ignore. In everyone's life, there are certain words that spark instant revulsion. I raised my head from my book and my mind raced quickly, along with the beat of my heart, when I heard the word kike. Worse yet, the ethnic slur came from the rear, where the Beatles and Derek Taylor were sitting. I didn't race to conclusions. After all, I could have misunderstood what was being said. I bit my lip and hoped I was wrong. Then I heard the word again, this time in part of a sentence, "The kike did---" I heard, though I couldn't be sure whose voice had said it. Although it's hardly part of the current hate vernacular, the word was used generously by bigots in the 1960s.

Irritated, disappointed and agitated, I got up from my seat and approached the rear, about five rows back. My growing-up years, especially those I had spent in suburban Miami, had sensitised me to words that hurt. And this hurt, especially at the time and place.

I approached the opening to the Beatles' small compartment, stuck my head in, and blurted out "Listen, I just want to say that I heard a word that really pisses me off. I'm Jewish, and I won't stand for that crap. I mean, whoever said it, can't you think before you talk?"

The beatles, Derek Taylor and Malcolm Evans looked startled. Sheepishly, without the courage to wait for an answer, I returned to my seat, figuring that the outburst would end my travels with the band, or at the least would rupture the rapport I had established in just a few days.

Minutes passed. The Derek Taylor came forward and knelt alongside my aisle seat. He said "Look, I'm really sorry. It came from me. It's just a word that is used quite casually in English life and I didn't mean anything." I replied, "But you didn't say it." I knew the voice hadn't been his. "What do you mean?" "I mean you didn't say it." Derek smiled. "Doesn't matter. It was said nonetheless. I'm sorry."

At that point I felt foolish about the whole thing. But I also knew that if I had let it go and ignored the slight, I could not have lived with myself the rest of the tour.

Minutes later, Lennon came over and sat down. I don't remember our exact words, but we had a relaxed and compassionate conversation about the roots of prejudice in Liverpool. It was a good talk. As we spoke, Ringo and George walked by. Ringo gave a wink, and George just said, "How you doing, Larry." Paul didn't make a special trip. He did pass by on the way to the bathroom and said "Great working with you, Larry." It was, I interpreted, his way of smoothing the episode over.

I felt good, but still self-conscious that I had responded so aggressively. Whatever the roots of the prejudice and whatever the reasons someone had spoken that word, I knew I would never hear it again for the remainder of the tour. And this incident did something else; it showed me that the Beatles possessed genuine compassion and feeling.

Two years later Derek [...] brought up the subject. I had long forgotten, but Derek had not. He confirmed that he wasn't the one who had said the word and that the boys had been embarrassed. When I asked him who'd said it, he changed the subject.

_____

Towards the end of the '65 tour Brian Epstein invited Larry for drinks in his rented cottage:

As the conversation progressed, I realised that I was serving as a depository for some pent up, constrained feelings. I listened intently as he expressed concern that he was losing his grip on John and maybe the whole group and described his fear that, without his presence, the Beatles' unity would divide into four separate camps. His words would be prophetic, but he didn't imagine that his own death would be a catalyst in realising those predictions.

I was surprised as Epstein described a growing paranoia. He looked pained when he described an awareness of the boys talking behind his back. He assumed that they were laughing at him. I told him I had never heard or seen anything like that. I could imagine that happening, but I was hardly an expert on their private behaviour and of course didn't make any guesses with him. [...]

And then, much to my astonishment, he addressed a subject close to my heart - anti-Semitism. This scourge was commonplace in industrial Liverpool in the forties and fifties, he said, creating a cloud of resentment that he unmistakably felt, even around entertainers. "Are the Beatles anti-Semitic?" I inquired.

"I don't think so," he said, "But it was always around them, so it may be in them." I never told him about the incident on the plane in 1964.

George and Astrid in 1977; photo © Astrid Kirchherr.

“Astrid was the one, really, who influenced our image more than anybody.” - George Harrison, The Beatles Anthology

“I had the strongest friendship with George. He was one of my best friends. We saw each other often, and he always looked after me, got in touch constantly to ask if I was healthy and if I have everything. Today […] I still meet up with his wife Olivia and his son Dhani.” - Astrid Kirchherr, translated from Hörzu, 2005

“[Olivia] is a special lady and a wonderful woman, she is only what you would expect from someone married to such a wonderful man as George. […] I was invited to a beautiful memorial service with Olivia and their son Dhani, who is so like George, at their beautiful home where George was happy being a gardener.’” - Astrid Kirchherr, Liverpool Echo, August 26, 2003

“I was in London then [in the late Sixties] and George said he needed a photo for the inner sleeve of his Wonderwall album. I said, I just don’t feel like it, and anyway I haven’t got a camera. He smiled and said, ‘Darling, I just need to click my fingers and there’s any camera you want!’ So I had to do it, and I do really like that picture. Then later George said, ‘Come over to London and I’ll set up a studio for you and you can be a photographer here.’ But I was so unsure then if I was any good or not, that I just couldn’t accept his offer. I’d had years of being called ‘The Beatles’ photographer’. I’d go into a magazine with my portfolio, and all they would want to talk about was The Beatles. They didn’t care if picture was out of focus or not, especially in the ’60s, as long as it had a Beatle in it. So I started to question myself. Are you actually good, or are you only good because you took pictures of The Beatles? And under those circumstances, I didn’t feel as if I could do it any more. I still take pictures - but these days they’re just in my mind.” - Astrid Kirchherr, The Beatles: Classic, Rare & Unseen

“He was then [in the early ‘60s], he still is now: my Georgie boy.” - Astrid Kirchherr, translated from Spiegel, 2/1994

“George was always my favorite, his kindness and his wit. He was just a wonderful person and whenever I was in trouble, like with money and things, he was always looking after me and he invited me a couple of times to London and later on to Henley. I just miss him terribly because he was like a little guardian angel for me, I feel like I am in a way lost without him.” - Astrid Kirchherr, Astrid Kirchherr: A Retrospective

“[Kirchherr] last saw George Harrison in mid-2001, months before he died, when he invited her to [Friar Park] for a last weekend with his family. ‘I remember we had a little walk in his park, and I was so full of love and joy to be with him that I cried,’ she says. ‘He said, “You must not cry, I will always look after you.” He had no fear. No fear whatsoever. I miss his presence, but I’ve got the feeling he’s still around me.’" - Peter Fetterman Gallery, Artists: Astrid Kirchherr (x)

Here is the Sunday Times McLennon article in full for non-British readers:

It's a weekly series apparently so I'm going to have to buy this Murdoch shitrag again next week, the things I do for you guys

You know what pretty privilege actually looks like? That story where 66 Paul parks his car in the middle of the road with the doors open and the radio on and the cop parks it for him and hands him the keys like he's his fucking chauffeur. VS that story where 66 John ends up in a high-speed chase because he doesn't want to sign autographs and the cop pulls him over and makes him sign until his pursuers are satisfied.

Thelma Pickles, John Lennon’s first girlfriend at Liverpool College of Art, on her relationship with John 

My first impression of John was that he was a smartarse. I was 16; a friend introduced us at Liverpool College of Art when we were waiting to register. There was a radio host at the time called Wilfred Pickles whose catchphrase was "Give them the money, Mabel!". When John heard my name he asked "Any relation to Wilfred?", which I was sick of hearing. Then a girl breezed in and said, "Hey John, I hear your mother's dead", and I felt absolutely sick. He didn't flinch, he simply replied, "Yeah". "It was a policeman that knocked her down, wasn't it?" Again he didn't react, he just said, "That's right, yeah." His mother had been killed two months earlier. I was stunned by his detachment, and impressed that he was brave enough to not break down or show any emotion. Of course, it was all a front. When we were alone together he was really soft, thoughtful and generous-spirited. Clearly his mother's death had disturbed him. We both felt that we'd been dealt a raw deal in our family circumstances, which drew us together. During the first week of college we had a pivotal conversation. I'd assumed that he lived with his dad but he told me, "My dad pissed off when I was a baby." Mine had too – I wasn't a baby, I was 10. It had such a profound effect on me that I would never discuss it with anyone. Nowadays one-parent families are common but then it was something shameful. After that it was like we were two against the world.

I went to his house soon after. It seemed really posh to me, brought up in a council house. We were alone, he showed me round and we had a bit of a kiss and a cuddle in his bedroom. Paul and George came round and we all had beans on toast, then they played their guitars in the kitchen. I had to leave early because Mimi wouldn't allow girls in the house. She was very strict. She wouldn't let him wear drainpipe trousers so he used to put other trousers over the top and remove them after he left the house. We used to take afternoons off to go to a picture-house called the Palais de Luxe where he liked to see horror films. I remember we went to see Elvis in Jailhouse Rock at the Odeon. He didn't take his glasses. We were holding hands and he kept yanking my hand saying, "What's happening now Thel?" John was enormous fun to be with, always witty, even if it was a cruel wit. Any minor frailty in somebody he'd detect with a laser-like homing device. We all thought it was hilarious but it wasn't funny to the recipients. Apart from the first instance, where he mocked my name, I never experienced it until I ended our relationship. We were close until around Easter of the following year, 1959. At an art school dance he took me to a darkened classroom. We went thinking we'd have it to ourselves but it was evident from the din that we weren't alone. I wasn't going to have an intimate soirée with other people present. I refused to stay, and he yanked me back and whacked me one. He had aggressive traits, mainly verbal, but never in private had he ever been aggressive - quite the opposite. Once he'd hit me that was it for me, I wouldn't speak to him. That one violent incident put paid to any closeness we had. I took care to not bump into him for a while. I didn't miss drinking at Ye Cracke with him but I missed the closeness we had. Still, we were friendly enough by the end of the next term. Because he did no work, he was on the brink of failure, so I loaned him some of my work, which I never got back. I've never wondered what might have been. It sounds disingenuous, but I wouldn't like to have been married to John – that would be quite a gargantuan task! He would've been 70 next year and I just cannot imagine a 70-year-old John Lennon. I'd be fearful that the fire would've gone out.

- Interview within Imogen Carter, ‘John Lennon, the boy we knew’, The Guardian (Dec 2009)

Thelma also briefly dated Paul McCartney and later married Mike McCartney’s bandmate, Roger McGough, in 1970.

Thelma also gives more detail of her relationship with John in Ray Coleman's 1984 John Lennon biography. Just to note, she mentions towards the end of the section that their romantic relationship just petered out, and John was never physically violent with her - it's likely the case that by the 2009 Guardian interview above, she would've felt more free to speak about John hitting her as the reason for the relationship's end, rather than this being two contrasting stories.

A year younger than John, Thelma was to figure in one of his most torrid teenage affairs before he met Cynthia.  Their friendship blossomed in a spectacular conversation one day as they walked after college to the bus terminus in Castle Street. In no hurry to get home, they sat on the steps of the Queen Victoria monument for a talk.  ‘I knew his mother had been killed and asked if his father was alive,’ says Thelma. ‘Again, he said in this very impassive and objective way: “No, he pissed off and left me when I was a baby.” I suddenly felt very nervous and strange. My father had left me when I was ten. Because of that, I had a huge chip on my shoulder. In those days, you never admitted you came from a broken home. You could never discuss it with anybody and people like me, who kept the shame of it secret, developed terrific anxieties. It was such a relief to me when he said that. For the first time, I could say to someone: “Well, so did mine.”’ 

At first Thelma registered that he didn’t care about his fatherless childhood. ‘As I got to know him, he obviously cared. But what I realised quickly was that he and I had an aggression towards life that stemmed entirely from our messy home lives.’ Their friendship developed, not as a cosy love match but as teenage kids with chips on their shoulders. ‘It was more a case of him carrying my things to the bus stop for me, or going to the cinema together, before we became physically involved.’ John, when she knew him, would have laughed at people who were seen arm in arm.’ It wasn't love's young dream. We had a strong affinity through our backgrounds and we resented the strictures that were placed upon us. We were fighting against the rules of the day. If you were a girl of sixteen like me, you had to wear your beret to school, be home at a certain time, and you couldn't wear make-up. A bloke like John would have trouble wearing skin-tight trousers and generally pleasing himself, especially with his strict aunt. We were always being told what we couldn’t do. He and I had a rebellious streak, so it was awful. We couldn't wait to grow up and tell everyone to get lost. Mimi hated his tight trousers and my mother hated my black stockings. It was a horrible time to be young!’ Lennon's language was ripe and fruity for the 1950s, and so was his wounding tongue. In Ye Cracke, one night after college, John rounded on Thelma in front of several students, and was crushingly rude to her. She forgets exactly what he said, but remembers her blistering attack on him: ‘Don't blame me,’ said Thelma, ‘just because your mother's dead.’ It was something of a turning point. John went quiet, but now he had respect for the girl who would return his own viciousness with a sentence that was equally offensive. ‘Most people stopped short,' says Thelma. ‘They were probably frightened of him, and on occasions there were certainly fights. But with me, he met someone with almost the same background and edge. We got on well, but I wasn't taking any of his verbal cruelty.’

When they were together, though, the affinity was special, with a particular emphasis on sick humour. Thelma says categorically that John and she laughed at afflicted or elderly people ‘as something to mock, a joke’. It was not anything deeply psychological like fear of them, or sympathy, she says. ‘Not to be charitable to ourselves, we both actually disliked these people rather than sympathised,’ says Thelma. ‘Maybe it was related to being artistic and liking things to be aesthetic all the time. But it just wasn't sympathy. I really admired his directness, his ability to verbalise all the things I felt amusing.’ He developed an instinctive ability to mock the weak, for whom he had no patience.  He developed an instinctive ability to mock the weak, for whom he had no patience. In the early 1950s, Britain had National Service conscription for men aged eighteen and over who were medically fit. John seized on this as his way of ridiculing many people who were physically afflicted. ‘Ah, you're just trying to get out of the army,’ he jeered at men in wheelchairs being guided down Liverpool's fashionable Bold Street, or ‘How did you lose your legs? Chasing the wife?’ He ran up behind frail old women and made them jump with fright, screaming 'Boo' into their ears. ‘Anyone limping, or crippled or hunchbacked, or deformed in any way, John laughed and ran up to them to make horrible faces. I laughed with him while feeling awful about it,’ says Thelma. ‘If a doddery old person had nearly fallen over because John had screamed at her, we'd be laughing. We knew it shouldn't be done. I was a good audience, but he didn't do it just for my benefit.’ When a gang of art college students went to the cinema, John would shout out, to their horror, ‘Bring on the dancing cripples.’ says Thelma. ‘Perhaps we just hadn’t grown out of it. He would pull the most grotesque faces and try to imitate his victims.’ 

Often, when he was with her, he would pass Thelma his latest drawings of grotesquely afflicted children with misshapen limbs. The satirical Daily Howl that he had ghoulishly passed around at Quarry Bank School was taken several stages beyond the gentle, prodding humour he doled out against his former school teachers. ‘He was merciless,’ says Thelma Pickles. ‘He had no remorse or sadness for these people. He just thought it was funny.’ He told her he felt bitter about people who had an easy life. ‘I found him magnetic,’ says Thelma, ‘because he mirrored so much of what was inside me, but I was never bold enough to voice.’  Thel, as John called her, became well aware of John's short-sightedness on their regular trips to the cinema. They would ‘sag off’ college in the afternoons to go to the Odeon in London Road or the Palais de Luxe, to see films like Elvis Presley in Jailhouse Rock and King Creole. ‘He’d never pay,’ says Thelma. ‘He never had any money.’ Whether he had his horn-rimmed spectacles with him or not, John would not wear them in the cinema. He told her he didn’t like them for the same reason that he hated deformity in people: wearing specs was a sign of weakness. Just as he did not want to see crutches or wheelchairs without laughing, John wouldn't want to be laughed at. So he very rarely wore his specs, even though the black horn-rimmed style was a copy of his beloved Buddy Holly.  ‘So in the cinema we sat near the front and it would be: “What’s happening now, Thel?” “Who’s that, Thel?” He couldn’t follow the film but he wouldn’t put his specs on, even if he had them.’

[...] It was not a big step from cinema visits and mutual mocking of people for John and Thelma to go beyond the drinking sessions in Ye Cracke. ‘It wasn't love’s young dream, but I had no other boyfriends while I was going out with John and as far as I knew he was seeing nobody except me.’  On the nights that John's Aunt Mimi was due to go out for the evening to play bridge, Thelma and John met on a seat in a brick-built shelter on the golf course opposite the house in Menlove Avenue. When the coast was clear and they saw Mimi leaving, they would go into the house. ‘He certainly didn’t have a romantic attitude to sex,’ says Thelma. ‘He used to say that sex was equivalent to a five-mile run, which I’d never heard before. He had a very disparaging attitude to girls who wanted to be involved with him but wouldn’t have sex with him. ‘“They’re edge-of-the-bed virgins,” he said.  ‘I said: “What does that mean?” ‘He said: “They get you to the edge of the bed and they’ll not complete the act.” ‘He hated that. So if you weren’t going to go to bed with him, you had to make damned sure you weren’t going to go to the edge of the bed either. If you did, he’d get very angry. ‘If you were prepared to go to his bedroom, which was above the front porch, and start embarking on necking and holding hands, and you weren’t prepared to sleep with him, then he didn’t want to know you. You didn’t do it. It wasn’t worth losing his friendship. So if you said, “No”, then that was OK. He’d then play his guitar or an Everly Brothers record. Or we’d got to the pictures. He would try to persuade you to sleep with him, though.  ‘He was no different from any young bloke except that if you led him on and gave the impression you would embark on any kind of sexual activity and then didn’t, he'd be very abusive. It was entirely lust. 

[...] Thelma was John’s girlfriend for six months. ‘It just petered out,’ she says. ‘I certainly didn’t end it. He didn’t either. We still stayed part of the same crowd of students. When we were no longer close, he was more vicious to me in company than before. I was equally offensive back. That way you got John’s respect. Her memory of her former boyfriend is of a teenager ‘very warm and thoughtful inside. Part of him was gentle and caring. He was softer and gentler when we were alone than when we were in a crowd. He was never physically violent with me - just verbally aggressive, and he knew how to hurt. There was a fight with him involved once, in the canteen, but he’d been drinking. He wasn’t one to pick a fight. He often enraged someone with his tongue and he’d been on the edge of it, but he loathed physical violence really. He’d be scared. John avoided real trouble.’

- Within Ray Coleman, John Winston Lennon: 1940-66 vol.1 (1984)

you know how being songwriting partners is like marriage and songwriting is like sex and making an album is like being pregnant and songs are like your children. i don't even have anything to add to this it's just like. ok! yeah! what more can any of us do with this? you said it, man. sure!

Robert Fraser’s interview with Peter Brown and Steven Gaines, All You Need is Love

Some highlights:

Robert Fraser: Peter Asher was Jane’s brother. I think he brought Paul over to my place. He made me sorry because he saw a sculpture in my apartment and said, “I want that.” It was quite a lot of money for those days, it was like 2,500 quid. Paul never asked the price until he decided to buy something. If he liked it, he wanted it.

Steven Gaines: I guess they didn’t have to think about the price

Robert Fraser: No, but most people, even if they don’t have to think about it, they want to know the price. Paul was very, very open-minded, but he was also more…Well, John was too, but I mean John was sort of very difficult to…He was more difficult to…He was very shy in a way, and it comes out in an aggressive way.

Steven Gaines: It’s an odd decision Paul made to live at his girlfriend’s home with her parents.

Robert Fraser: Paul was a very domestic sort of personality. He liked the idea.

Peter Brown: I didn’t think twice about it, but looking back on it now, it was pretty ahead of its time to move in with your girlfriend’s family.

Robert Fraser: Even now, he’s done exactly what he wants. He’s not really like…He never really lived a rock star’s life.

Jimi Hendrix in Ringo Starrs apartment in 1968

him sleeping with that crochet stuffed animal is one of my favorite photos of him, and that velvet blue suit looks so pretty

George Harrison on Let It Be, in an interview for Entertainment Tonight and WEA (taped on 22 September 1987; interview conducted by Laura Gross). No infringement intended, footage is copyrights its respective owner(s).

A look back at how George viewed the movie and The Beatles’ break-up in the 1970s, 1980s, and 1990s; and Dhani on the same subject in November 2021.

“[T]he group had problems long before Yoko came along. Many problems, folks.” - George Harrison, The Dick Cavett Show, 23 November 1971

“When you’re so close, you tend to lock each other up in pigeonholes. Musically, with Ringo and John I had no problem. But with Paul, well, it reached a point when he wouldn’t let me play on sessions. It was part of our splitting up. But at the same time I have a tendency to defend Paul — John and Ringo too — if anyone else said anything without qualification about them. After going through all that together, there must be something good about it. It’s just that around 1968 everyone’s egos started going crazy. Maybe it was just a lack of tact or discretion. Probably the biggest problem of them all was that there was no way Yoko Ono or Linda McCartney was going to be in The Beatles. That really helped put the nail in the coffin. That’s said without any bitterness against Yoko and Linda, because I can really enjoy them as people, but, let’s face it, The Beatles were not with Yoko or Linda. I suppose it was a result of Yoko being an outsider, coming in… and John was pushing her… and she had such a strong ego anyway. Then Paul got Linda to get his own back.” - George Harrison, NME, 11 December 1976

“[Let It Be] was really supposed to be us rehearsing to make a record and they were just filming the rehearsals, and that turned into the movie, you know, Let It Rot (laughs), as The Rutles called it. That, you know, I didn’t like. There’s scenes in it, like on the roof, that was quite good, and there were bits and pieces that’s okay, but most of it just makes me so aggravated that I can’t watch it. Because it was a particularly bad experience that we were having at that time, and… it’s bad enough when you’re having it, let alone having it filmed and recorded so that you’ve got to watch it for the rest of your life. I don’t like it.” - George Harrison, interview for Entertainment Tonight, taped 22 September 1987 (x)

Gerge Harrison: “At that point in time, Paul couldn’t see beyond himself. He was so on a roll — but it was a roll encompassing his own self. And in his mind, everything that was going on around him was just there to accompany him. He wasn’t sensitive to stepping on other people’s egos or feelings. Having said that, when it came time to do the occasional song of mine — although it was difficult to get to that point — Paul would always be really creative with what he’d contribute. For instance, that galloping piano part on While My Guitar Gently Weeps was Paul’s, and it’s brilliant right to this day. On the Live In Japan album, I got our keyboardist to play it note for note. And you just have to listen to the bass line on Something to know that, when he wanted to, Paul could give a lot. But, you know, there was a time there when…” Q: “I think it’s called being human — and young.” GH: “It is… [sighs] It really is.” - interview conducted in 1992; Guitar World, January 2001

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Joan Baez at the Viking Hotel in Newport, 1964. She is reading Cavalier, a men's adult magazine similar to Playboy.

Joan Baez performing I Never Will Marry, c. 1958

after ringo wrote to george "i think love is about you" ANY other declaration of love completely lost its meaning forever