An excerpt from the novel Nothing Is Real by Szabolcs Benedek, translated from Hungarian by Dóra Emma Esze
This might be just part of his public image, but whilst he is fully aware of being unparalleled royalty, Sir Paul is also quite content to still be the boy next door — not only deep down in his heart but also when it comes to how he is seen by the world. The young Liverpudlian, that is: the lad listening to Elvis’s albums in a neat little apartment in the suburbs, prompting him to start strumming his own guitar.
There’s an anecdote I came across on a message board a few years back. It’s about a guy who spent hours waiting outside the headquarters of McCartney Productions Ltd. one day. He had been tipped off earlier: Sir Paul would be in that day. Now, if his idol entered the building, sooner or later he’d surely have to come outside, right? Well, his logic tracked.
Whilst Sir Paul was leaving the building, he spotted the small crowd gathered nearby and so he approached them. Our guy happened to be a fan of both the Beatles and The Rolling Stones (yes, that can happen sometimes, why not?), and, when the game-changing moment came, he was so nervous that he accidentally pulled out a Stones CD from his pocket for Sir Paul to sign. Sir Paul glanced at the slip and said, “No, it’s another band.” Then he waited patiently for the fan, quivering from excitement and stress, to find the right CD in his coat.
For decades now, Sir Paul’s shows have been a display of the exact same templates. I know his words by heart, I know how he introduces each tune — all of them. And yet I get goosebumps, especially the moment when he steps on stage. I also tend to tear up a little during his gigs, at one point or another.
You are the first woman I’ve ever met who likes to see men cry.
Men have been beaten into not letting anyone witness their emotions — sometimes literally — into distancing themselves from how they feel in general. This has been the awful practice going on for centuries. To wreak havoc, to yell, to shriek, to get into a fight — all that is considered very manly. Yet whenever a guy shows vulnerability, he is automatically seen as a wuss. Vulnerability is pathetic, it is sad, it is a sign of weakness. A real man represses it. He should destroy his fears, he should crush his inhibitions. Then, when all the silencing results in anxiety which, in turn, leads to a heart attack, people tend to be in shock. “Oh no, cardiovascular problems, we can’t believe it, how is that possible? He always looked so healthy!”
I only ever let my tears flow freely when I see Paul or Ringo on stage. However, I could quite often use a good cry.
Many a time I have tried to approach them. When I was a teenager, the one and only Hungarian teen magazine published three addresses. That’s where you were supposed to write requesting the autographs of the three living Beatles. To this day, I have no idea if the addresses were real or fake. I wrote to all three of them. None of them replied.
The last time Ringo had a show in Vienna, I would have loved to do an interview with him. When I brought it up with the organisers, they said Ringo absolutely did not do that — talk to journalists on tour. However, a couple of hours before the gig started, I ventured backstage and started talking to the first person I bumped into. I told this bloke that I happened to be an extremely popular writer. (What, something funny? A fib or two can’t hurt.) I told him I had written a book about The Beatles and handed him a copy to prove it. All I wanted was to have a moment with Ringo. A word, a selfie, an autograph, a handshake — I really didn’t mind.
I was surprised to see this person did not blow me off right out of the gate. In fact, he heard me out and delegated me to someone who, in turn, told me to go find a third guy who, I figured, was probably head of security. He said he’d hop on to Ringo’s dressing room straight away, knock on the door, and ask him.
My heart was beating like crazy. I knew the plan would work without the shadow of a doubt. Suddenly, three Hungarian women popped up — boisterous, excited, all talking at the same time. They walked over to me and said they’d recognised me, they had read my book. I was there to see Ringo, wasn’t I? Okay, they’d join me. They had already checked every single high-end hotel in Vienna. Nobody was willing to tell them whether Ringo was staying there.
I didn’t know what to say. Nor did my guy, the head of security. As soon as he saw the company I was keeping, his smile melted the way it does in movies. I shot a glance at him, begging him with my eyes, begging for help. It was no use. He shook his head and disappeared behind the door — the one I had been so sure I’d enter only a few minutes prior.
I get it, I get it. Lennon was shot by a diehard fan. I was standing there with three desperate, clingy women ready to cut an arm off to meet a Beatle face to face — as was I. Were it not for them, I think I could have gotten through to Ringo. However, the group we formed was just too much. In the end, the women had to settle for my autograph. I signed my book and let one of them have it.
No, it wasn’t anger. It was heartbreak.
However, Paul did say hello to me one day!
In Munich.
On the day of the concert, in the afternoon, I walked straight up to the door leading backstage at the Olympic Stadium. A small crowd had already gathered there. Even though we could hear the band diligently practising “1985” (their usual warm-up piece), everyone standing outside was dead certain Paul had not arrived yet. Most people had an album in their hands, I had brought my book (yep, the very same one), and there was even a guy holding his guitar. I remember thinking he either wanted the instrument signed or to show off a little bit of his talent.
We waited patiently for almost an hour. The security guards also had it together. Every time one of us got a little too excited and took a single step towards the stadium, one of them politely ushered that person back into their place.
You could tell something was up the moment the security people started stopping cyclists and runners in the streets around the stadium in that beautiful, golden afternoon. Clearly, something was happening. Soon enough, we spotted a blue Mercedes blinking its headlights. Some people started screaming, reaching out with the album covers in their hands. The car would not slow down. And right when it got exactly in line with me, Paul stuck his head out the window next to the passenger seat and shouted at me:
“Hello!”
He was wearing shades and a pink shirt. In a few seconds, the Mercedes disappeared inside the stadium.
No, I don’t have a video. Everyone else was recording like crazy, but I did not even touch my phone. Just like the tourist who, standing by the Eiffel Tower, replied to all the others clicking their cameras like there was no tomorrow: “I don’t want to take a look at it when I’m home. I want to take a look at it now.” I see your point, though: because there is nothing to upload anywhere, who knows if it happened at all. Right?
Do you believe me when I tell you it did?
Paul usually greets the people waiting for him. Once, he even interrupted an ongoing interview to do that. He was sitting in his car, talking to someone at a radio station over the phone. The moment his car arrived at the entrance of the stadium, he told the people in the studio to hold on for a second because he wanted to say hi to his fans.
I figured a pint or two would evaporate from my blood by midnight — the earliest I would be finding myself behind the wheel again. Not to mention in Germany you are allowed to drive with an itsy-bitsy bit of alcohol in your system. As I was making my way to the Bavarian Beer Garden nearby, all of a sudden I heard “Day Tripper” playing in the stadium. It was part of the soundcheck.
“Our next song is about a bad girl!” — That’s how Lennon used to introduce it on stage. In 1966, at the press conference for the tour in the States, a certain journalist — doubtlessly thinking he was in the know — asked if it was true that “Day Tripper” was really about a prostitute.
“We were just trying to write songs about prostitutes and lesbians, that’s all,” Paul replied.
