A Day in the Life
The Beatles at Another Beatles Christmas Show, January 14th 1965
There's something rather peculiar about watching the nation's most famous moptops prancing about in Shakespearean ruffs and doublets, whilst teenage girls weep into their handkerchiefs and parents fidget uncomfortably in their seats. Yet here we are, on a bitter January evening in 1965, at the Hammersmith Odeon, where the mercury has plummeted to near-freezing outside, but inside it's a positive scorcher from the combined body heat of 3,000 screaming fans.
It's the penultimate week of "Another Beatles Christmas Show" – a somewhat lazily titled follow-up to the previous year's extravaganza. Brian Epstein, ever the theatrical impresario, had conceived this variety show format back in '63, and like everything he touched in those days, it turned to gold faster than you could say "yeah, yeah, yeah."
The show, directed by Peter Yolland (who'd cut his teeth on various BBC light entertainment programmes) and produced by the indefatigable Peter Pilbeam, is a curious beast indeed. Part pantomime, part pop concert, part music hall throwback – it's as if someone had thrown Morecambe and Wise, Shakespeare, and Mersey Beat into a theatrical blender and pressed 'puree'.
Today's performance marks the 19th show of the run, and by now, the lads have got their comic timing down to a fine art. The "Imagination" sketch, featuring Paul McCartney as a judge (complete with flowing robes and an absolutely preposterous powdered wig) has become particularly polished. John Lennon, ever the natural comic, steals every scene he's in with ad-libs that would make Max Miller blush.
The format follows much the same pattern as previous nights: opening acts featuring the likes of Freddie and the Dreamers (whose lead singer appears to be suffering from some sort of permanent electrical shock, given his on-stage movements), Sounds Incorporated, and the delightful Elkie Brooks. Then comes the theatrical portion, where our fab four demonstrate that their talents might not necessarily extend to the dramatic arts – but their charm more than makes up for any theatrical shortcomings.
The critics? Well, they've been somewhat divided. The Times' theatre critic (who clearly thought he'd be reviewing "King Lear" that evening) sniffed that it was "somewhat beneath the dignity of the Odeon," while the Daily Mirror's Don Short – always more in tune with the youth zeitgeist – declared it "a rollicking success that proves the Beatles can do more than just sing."
Meanwhile, in the outside world, Harold Wilson's Labour government is grappling with a sterling crisis, and the evening's BBC News features grave-faced commentators discussing the possibility of wage freezes. The pop charts this week are topped by the Moody Blues with "Go Now," while the Beatles' own "I Feel Fine" sits comfortably at number three after its Christmas number one spot. Radio Caroline, broadcasting from its watery perch in the North Sea, has been playing both singles relentlessly, along with The Kinks' "All Day and All of the Night" and The Animals' "Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood."
On BBC Television this Thursday evening, as the Beatles were donning their costumes, viewers at home were being treated to an episode of "Steptoe and Son," followed by the current affairs programme "Tonight" – where, ironically, one of the topics was the "phenomenon of beat groups" and their impact on British youth.
The show itself is a masterclass in controlled chaos. Opening with "Twist and Shout," the band tears through a set including "I'm A Loser," "Baby's in Black," and "I Feel Fine." The sound system at the Odeon, never designed for such decibel levels, struggles valiantly against the wall of screams. Ringo, practically hidden behind his kit on the elevated platform, keeps the beat steady as a metronome while Paul and John trade verses and George Harrison, fighting a nasty winter cold, still manages to make his Gretsch sing.
Between musical numbers, we're treated to skits that would make the Cambridge Footlights blush – though perhaps not with envy. There's the "Pyramus and Thisbe" parody (Lennon's idea, that – he'd remembered it from his school days), with George Harrison playing Wall with all the wooden delivery of an actual wall. Paul, ever the showman, camps it up magnificently as Thisbe, while Ringo, as Lion, manages to get his roar in perfect time with the backing track.
The evening performance I'm witnessing has an added layer of tension: Brian Epstein is in attendance, clipboard in hand, making notes. The band, aware of his presence, seem to be putting in that extra bit of effort. Even John, usually the most cavalier about such things, appears to be sticking more or less to the script.
Backstage, in the cramped dressing room that smells of greasepaint and cigarettes, I catch glimpses of the machinery behind the magic. Mal Evans, the band's loyal roadie, is frantically trying to fix a broken guitar strap with gaffer tape. Neil Aspinall is running through schedule changes with Brian Epstein, while a harried-looking costume mistress attempts to sew up a tear in one of the Tudor ruffs.
The show represents a curious moment in Beatles history – perhaps the last time they would be willing to participate in such theatrical hijinks. By the following Christmas, they would be too big, too cool, too artistic for such variety show shenanigans. But for now, in the winter of '65, they're still willing to play the game, to don the costumes, to play the fool for their public.
The set list for the show's musical portions tells its own story of a band in transition. Yes, they're still playing the early crowd-pleasers, but songs like "I'm A Loser" hint at the more introspective direction their music is taking. Lennon's Dylan influence is becoming more apparent, though it's somewhat undermined by the fact he's delivering the lyrics while wearing striped pantaloons.
Outside the Odeon, a small army of police officers maintains order among the crowds of fans who couldn't get tickets but have gathered anyway, hoping for a glimpse of their heroes arriving or departing. Some have been there since morning, huddled against the January chill, clutching copies of the Radio Times that features the band on its cover this week.
The show ends, as it has every night, with "Long Tall Sally" – Paul McCartney shredding his vocal cords while the audience drowns him out anyway. The curtain falls, the house lights come up, and three thousand teenagers begin the process of coming down from their collective high.
Tomorrow, they'll do it all again. And again the next night, and the next, until January 16th when the curtain will fall for the final time on this curious theatrical experiment. But for now, the Beatles are still here, still willing to play the game, still the nation's court jesters as much as its rock royalty.
In the immortal words of John Lennon (delivered during tonight's performance when his fake moustache fell off during the courtroom scene): "Well, that wasn't supposed to happen, was it?"