Paul Is Undead: The British Zombie Invasion Read online

Paul said, “Umm, you lost me.”

  I said, “What’re we doing with the band? What’s the point?”

  He gave me a funny look, then said, “I thought the point of being in a band was that there’s no point. We play a few tunes, we drink a few drinks, we have a few laughs. That’s enough for me. Who needs a point? It’d be nice to have some dosh in our pockets, and maybe make a record someday, but if we keep going the way we’re going, I think that’ll come.”

  I said, “That’s not enough for me.”

  He said, “Well then, what do you want?”

  I said, “You have to remember, Paul, we’re different from any other band in the world. Nobody’s got what we got.”

  He said, “What’s that?”

  I said, “We’re on this planet forever. For fookin’ ever.”

  Paul said, “Yeah. I’m well aware of that, y’know. What does that have to do with our band?”

  I said, “Ten years from now, do you want to be some sad cunt cranking out Chuck Berry tunes at the Cavern Club for ten shillings and two pints?”

  He said, “Erm, I suppose not.”

  I said, “Ten years from now, do you want to be playing at, I dunno, Wembley Stadium in front of tens of thousands of people?”

  He said, “That sounds good.”

  I said, “Yeah, but here’s something that sounds better: ten years from now, do you want to rule the world?”

  PAUL MCCARTNEY: I laughed so hard that I almost chundred my champagne. I asked him, “Okay, mate, you’ve been talking this shite for years, y’know. What the fook do you mean, ‘rule the world’?”

  He said, “Just like it sounds. Do you want to rule the world?”

  Now, one of the things I’ve always loved most about John is that he thinks big, an’ that. I was happy making slow moves, taking baby steps: play for a few people at a little party, play for a few more people at a big club, make a record, play at a bigger club, get on the radio, play an even bigger club. Up the ladder one rung at a time, y’know. John, on the other hand, apparently wanted to go immediately from the Kaiserkeller to the moon. After I got my laughter under control, I readjusted my hand, which I’d done a lousy job of reattaching, and asked him, “Erm, why, Johnny? Why d’you want to rule the world?”

  He said, “We’re a bunch of yobbos from Liverpool. It’ll be a laugh. Plus, those Hammer movies are pretty cool, and if we get big, maybe they’d make one about us: The Curse of the Beatles or something.”

  I said, “Erm, okay. Not the best reasons, but I’ll accept it. And how exactly do you intend to take over the world?”

  He kneeled down on the floor, gave me a huge grin, and said, “First of all, we have to get to the Toppermost of the Poppermost.”

  Again with the Poppermost. I said, “Give me a straight answer, Johnny: what the bloody hell is the Poppermost?”

  He got a dreamy look in his eyes, then said, “The Poppermost is the Toppermost, man, the top, the summit of the mountain, the place where we can do whatever we want, whenever we want. In the Poppermost, if we feel like starting a zombie colony in Glastonbury where the undead can roam free without fear of being popped with a diamond slug, we can. Or if we want to draw and quarter Cliff Richard, then cook his cortex for supper, we can. If we want to zombify Spike Milligan and Peter Sellers so The Goon Show can live on forever, we can. Whatever we want, whenever we want.”

  I said, “That sounds brilliant. But again, how do you plan to do it?”

  He asked me, “What do we do best?”

  I said, “I suppose we’re good at being a nice little rock ’n’ roll band.”

  He said, “Right. Now we have to figure out how to become a nice big rock ’n’ roll band. First, we have to start writing more of our own songs. Fook playing covers. That isn’t gonna get us out of the small clubs.”

  I wasn’t sure what writing tunes had to do with world domination, but in terms of advancing the Beatles, that made solid sense. I said, “Right. I can get behind that. What else?”

  He said, “We tour and tour and tour and tour, and we try not to cause any trouble … or, at least, not get caught. I know we have to eat—and sometimes we have to eat a lot—but no obvious murders, no public decapitations, no castrations just for the fook of it, kill only those who deserve to be killed, no sex slaves …”

  I said, “I haven’t made any sex slaves.”

  He said, “Yeah. Right. Sure. And neither have I. Wouldn’t even consider it.” He said that in his famous John Lennon sarcastic tone, which made me certain he had created a few sex slaves. But I’d never know for sure, because there’s an unwritten zombie code: keep your sex life to yourself. You could talk about drinking the postman’s brain fluid all you wanted, but a discussion about how big of a dustmen pile you blew on some bird’s bum is a no-no.

  I said, “Right, then. No sex slaves, an’ that. Next?”

  He stood up and scratched his head, then said, “I haven’t quite gotten that far yet. I’ll figure it out when we get there.”

  I got up, then clapped him on the shoulder, and told him, “Sounds like a plan, mate. Let’s get rolling on this next year, cool?”

  He said, “Cool. But this being the holiday season and all, I don’t think we need to put our plan into effect until January second. So what d’you say we go and cause some trouble?”

  I said, “Absolutely.” And then, right after midnight, John and I snuck down Neil’s back stairs, went down to the Mersey River, and feasted. Over many glasses of champagne and many handfuls of fresh, firm, warm brains, we decided that 1961 was going to be a big year.

  The year 1961 saw a major change for the infrastructure of Liverpool’s soon-to-be-finest: with Stu Sutcliffe back in Hamburg guzzling down all the German blood he could get his fangs on, the quintet became a quartet, forever and ever, amen. They booked dozens and dozens of shows throughout the UK and soon realized that driving the van and hauling their gear themselves put a crimp in their style, so they asked Paul and George’s childhood pal Neil Aspinall to become their roadie. A loyal, hardworking sort, Aspinall stayed with the band until the end, becoming one of the many so-called Fifth Beatles.

  Nobody knows for certain if John, Paul, or George jammed their respective tongues into Aspinall’s neck and gave him eternal life, because nobody could ever tell whether or not Aspinall was a zombie. He’s always sported that gray English pallor, but that could be credited to living in Liverpool. He has an ageless look about him—he could be forty or ninety or anywhere in between—but that might be due to, I don’t know, cigarettes or something. He refuses to discuss whether or not he’s a living being, but any other topic is fair game, as I learned when I spoke with him in January 2006, two years before he either passed away or relocated to the Liverpudlian sewers.

  NEIL ASPINALL: I couldn’t tell you exactly how many concert dates we did in ’61. I’d say as few as one hundred and as many as two-fifty. It became a blur.

  John told me right after I was hired that they were going to be good lads, or, at least, as good as they could be, and his definition of being good meant no deaths—or, at least, no obvious ones. Like all Liverpool zombies, the boys ate people food for enjoyment, but they had to eat brains to survive, so they had no choice but to, ehm, take care of their business every once in a while. I can’t blame them. If you crave a fried Mars bar, you go and get a fried Mars bar. If you crave a brain, you go and get a brain. End of story.

  As far as I know, nobody died in ’61 at the hands of Lennon, McCartney, or Harrison, but that’s not to say they didn’t feed—trust me, they fed. That somehow didn’t hurt the development of their loyal fan base. I’d suspect that if you loved a zombie band, you’d be thrilled to have one or both of their lead singers murder you.

  But John and Paul didn’t do all the killing. George took on his fair share, and the interesting thing about that was, all the folks George reanimated that year became virtuoso guitarists.

  GEORGE HARRISON: Back then, the thing I lived for the most was m
usic, and I figured if I thought that way, then everybody should think that way. So whenever I had a brain craving, I’d pack up my trusty Gretsch 6128 Duo Jet and head over to the trendiest part of whatever town we were gigging in. I’d look for a cool-looking guy or girl in their late teens or early twenties who was carrying a guitar; if they recognized me, so much the better. Then I’d invite them for a walk, and if they needed a little nudge, I’d look into their eyes and bend their will, but thanks to either my Beatle status or the fact that I was carrying a cool guitar, most came willingly. I’d ask them if they wanted to go back to their place and jam on some Leadbelly; if they said no, I’d move on, but if they said yes, it was off to their flat.

  Once there, after a few tunes, I’d put them to sleep, then, after a quick cuppa cuppa, I’d take the traditional zombie chomp right beneath their earlobe, then, after I did the brain fluid switch, I’d jam the fretboard of my Gretsch into the wound and circle it around for a bit, like for thirty-one seconds, then I’d replace the divot, seal it shut with my tongue, and voila, an undead teenager who could play the hell out of their axe.

  I purposely never found out any of their names, so it’s possible that some of them became stars. If I were to venture a guess about who I turned into an undead fretman, I’d go with Dave Davies. I mean, just look at the bloke. Those’re some zombie eyes if I’ve ever seen ’em.

  Arguably the Beatles’ most important moment of 1961 went down at the end of June, when the boys took to producer Bert Kaempfert’s studio to record a backing track for UK rock crooner Tony Sheridan. Sheridan, who refused numerous invitations to speak with me, was going to have his name front and center on the record sleeve; for that matter, there was the possibility the Beatles moniker wouldn’t appear on the cover at all, a fact that either wasn’t communicated to or understood by the Beatles.

  GEORGE HARRISON: I left the studio before most of the bad stuff went down at the Sheridan session, and what I did see was a bit of a blur. But I think Pete was the instigator.

  PETE BEST: I was a troublemaker, but my trouble was mostly juvenile shite—you know, messing about with girls I probably shouldn’t have messed with and playing practical jokes, that sort of thing. I wasn’t into destruction for destruction’s sake.

  No matter what anybody says, I had nothing to do with what happened to Bert’s studio. Seriously, how could I? I was a regular living human being and didn’t have anywhere near the strength necessary to cause such a ruckus. But they tried to pin it on me, John and Paul did, and I think for yours truly, that was the beginning of the end, although the end wound up being quite a ways away.

  Besides, I know for a fact that Paul started it. I saw it with me own two eyes.

  PAUL MCCARTNEY: I didn’t start it, y’know. I mean, you’ve seen the pictures of Pete’s drum kit, right? It was obvious that he started it.

  John and I might’ve finished it, though.

  JOHN LENNON: That hour or two is a little hazy, but I’m pretty certain it wasn’t Pete or Paul. I think I cast the first stone. I think I threw the first amp. But I refuse to accept the entire blame. I was bad, and Paul was bad, but Pete was worse.

  PETE BEST: Here’s what really happened, and if any of those undead fookers tell you differently, they’re feeding you more shite than you’d find in the sewers.

  So we run through the arrangement a few times, and once Bert and the engineer are pleased with the mix, they give us the go-ahead, and we rock out for forty-five minutes. Bert says he’s happy with the material, and thanks for coming, then John puts down his guitar, walks right up to Kaempfert, and says, “That’s it?”

  Bert says, “Yes, that’s it, Mr. Lennon. Were you expecting something else?”

  John says, “I was under the impression we’d get to do a couple tunes of our own.” I don’t know where he got that impression from.

  Bert says, “Ehm, no, I’m afraid not. This was always Tony’s session, and Tony’s session alone.”

  John says, “That’s not what Tony told us.” Truth is, Tony didn’t tell us fook-all. We had, maybe, five words with the bloke.

  Bert says, “Well, that’s between you gentlemen. You have thirty minutes to pack up. Please turn the lights out when you leave.” And then he splits.

  And then John throws his Fender Deluxe amplifier at the wall across the room.

  GEORGE HARRISON: Pete did or said something to Bert, and Bert looked pissed, and I was ready to go to bat for Pete. All for zombies, and zombies for all, and yeah, Pete wasn’t a zombie, but he was still one of us. But the second John’s Fender whizzed by my head—and missed knocking off my nose by only a couple of millimeters, I should note—I packed up and cleared the hell out. I wasn’t gonna let Johnny lay a finger on my GA-40 Les Paul, that’s for damn sure.

  PAUL MCCARTNEY: From the beginning of the band, John was the idea man, and most of his ideas were good ones. So I figured, if he thought destroying the studio was a wise move, I was game.

  Problem was, my Selmer Truvoice Stadium was a solid piece of equipment, y’know, and seemed like it was built to survive a nuclear holocaust. Now, what with my so-called zombie powers, I’m a strong bloke, but it took me three chucks to turn that baby into sawdust. John, however, trashed his Fender in one toss.

  JOHN LENNON: There was a method behind my mad amp-toss. I’d had my Rickenbacker 325 for three years, and I wasn’t about to turn my beloved guitar into firewood, so I did the next best thing.

  PETE BEST: Man, I loved my Premier drum kit. The cymbals were cherry, the toms rang across the room, and my snare head was to that point where it was broken in but not too broken in. Needless to say, I was livid when John started going to town on it, just fookin’ livid.

  JOHN LENNON: The first thing I did after my amp went to the great Fender factory in the sky was take off Pete’s ride cymbal and sharpen it on my teeth. I gave that thing a razor’s edge so sharp it could’ve decapitated a fookin’ elephant. Then I threw it like a Frisbee toward Bert’s recording setup … and I put some quality spin on it, so it did maximum damage. The reel-to-reel machine was in tatters, and the mixing board had sparks shooting out of it.

  That felt good, but it wasn’t enough. I was hungry, you see, and that’s the kind of thing that happens when I don’t have access to sustenance.

  I retrieved the cymbal, flung it at the wall, flicking my wrist just so. It cut through like a chain saw, and it moved so fast that it started smoking. The smoke turned to a campfire, and the campfire turned to a forest fire. We grabbed our gear—broken and unbroken alike—and got the fook out of there. For some reason, the story never made the paper.

  Good thing Bert took the master tapes with him, or else the world wouldn’t have been treated to our first real record, a cover of “My Bonnie,” which wasn’t released under the Quarrymen or the Silver Beatles or the Beatles or the Maggots, but rather Tony Sheridan and the Beat Brothers. The whole thing was ridiculous, but I suppose you’ve gotta start somewhere.

  One afternoon while I was at the Dakota, out of nowhere, Lennon turned to me and said, “Eppy’s still around, you know.”

  I almost dropped my cup of Kopi. “Bullshit. Quit fucking with me, Lennon,” I said. As far as I knew, Eppy—John’s nickname for the Beatles’ brilliant manager Brian Epstein—died of a drug overdose in 1967. Whether or not it was a suicide has always been up for debate.

  “Not fucking with you, mate. It’s true,” Lennon said. “Dunno where he’s at, though. Aspinall probably knows.”

  Neil Aspinall was the de facto Beatles gatekeeper, and it was his job to know that sort of thing … and to keep it quiet. Turned out John was right on both counts. Eppy was still around, and Aspinall knew his whereabouts—specifically, Edinburgh. (It also turned out that this was the one and only time John blatantly lied to me; he knew exactly where Brian Epstein was.)

  I wasn’t comfortable approaching Epstein myself, but Neil kindly offered to set up the meeting. Much to my pleasure, Brian agreed to see me immediately, which was a shoc
k, as I assumed he wasn’t the kind of guy who’d speak to the likes of yours truly. I’m certain the only reason he okayed the meeting is because of Neil’s endorsement.

  Brian’s wheelchair-friendly house—it’s a mansion, really—is set so far back from any road in Edinburgh that if you didn’t know it’s there, you wouldn’t know it’s there … and that’s just the way Eppy wants it. Courteous and affable as one would hope, if not somewhat guarded, Brian insisted on discussing his personal, more recent backstory first, before he launched into the back-backstory.

  BRIAN EPSTEIN: It doesn’t matter whether or not I committed suicide. It doesn’t change the story before, and it doesn’t change the story after. I was unhappy, I took a lot of drugs, and I died. The end.

  John was off in Lennonland for most of ’66 and ’67, but he sensed my state of mind, even though I thought I was doing a fine job of keeping up appearances; he’s always been good like that, John has. One afternoon, he asked me if I wanted him to turn me, claiming that a transformation might brighten my mood.

  I said, “No way. My life will end when it’s time for it to end. I don’t want to be around five hundred years from now. I don’t even want to be around fifty years from now. Life is meant to be lived finitely.”

  He said, “I’m infinite, and I’m doing okay.”

  I said, “Well, John, you’re you, and I’m me. So don’t reanimate me. Ever. Don’t try to sneak up on me when I’m asleep or hypnotize me or pull any of that bollocks you pull when you kill a stranger.” I made him promise. And he kept his promise. For seven years.

  In 1974, John Lennon and Yoko Ono dug up my grave, and John reanimated me. Initially I was livid, but when he apologized and said he did it because he was lonely, well, I had to forgive him, didn’t I? He bought me this house and made arrangements so I’d have enough money to be solvent until the end of time. In 2001, he said, “I’m glad I set you up with the dosh, Eppy. Imagine if you had to go back to work. You might get stuck managing some sad cunts like those fookin’ Gallagher brothers.”