Barry Keoghan's Blisters Prove He's Actually Taking Ringo Seriously (Unlike Some Other Beatles Projects)

From bootcamp bruises to vinyl rereleases, today's Beatles roundup reveals the good, the bad, and the surprisingly authentic

• Barry Keoghan has spent 16-17 weeks in Beatles bootcamp, developing actual blisters from drumming practice and meeting Ringo himself

• The Beatles in Mono vinyl box set returns after 11 years, though at £430 it'll cost you more than a week's wages in 1964

• Fans are still weeping over that alleged final Lennon-McCartney writing session that may or may not have happened in 1980

Well, well, well. Just when you thought the Beatles industrial complex couldn't squeeze another drop of nostalgia from our collective cultural consciousness, along comes Barry Keoghan with bleeding hands and genuine commitment to actually learning how to play Ringo's parts. What a novel concept for a Beatles film project.

The Irish actor has been holed up in what sounds like a proper boot camp for the past four months, not just learning to hold drumsticks like a prop but actually developing the calluses that come with real musicianship. "I've got blisters on my hands now," he confessed at the Fastnet Film Festival, which is more evidence of musical dedication than we've seen from most Beatles tribute acts in decades. The lad's even been working on Ringo's walk and facial expressions, suggesting someone finally understands that impersonating the Fab Four requires more than just getting the haircuts right.

Most refreshingly, Keoghan managed to sit opposite Ringo himself without immediately asking for a selfie or launching into "Yellow Submarine." The encounter left him so nervous he couldn't look directly at the man who gave us "Octopus's Garden," with Barbara Bach having to reassure him that it was acceptable to make eye contact. Instead of the usual fan-boy interrogation, Keoghan was interested in discovering "what made Ringo the man he is" rather than simply mining him for anecdotes about the good old days.

His approach reveals a maturity that's been sorely lacking in most Beatles-related projects. "We can all do imitation," he noted, "but I wanted to know where it came from." This suggests he understands the difference between mimicry and genuine character work – a distinction lost on countless Beatles impersonators who think a mop-top and a Scouse accent constitute serious acting.

His sobriety, he notes, has allowed him to approach the role "artistically" rather than "erratically" – which suggests previous Beatles biopics might have benefited from a few more sober moments in the editing room. The honesty about his personal struggles and how they're informing his craft adds a layer of authenticity to what could easily have been another superficial celebrity casting choice.

The fact that he's been at this for six or seven months of drumming practice before the official bootcamp even began demonstrates the sort of commitment that's been missing from most musical biopics. Remember when actors used to spend months learning instruments for roles? Apparently, some still do, even if the media prefers to focus on who's dating whom rather than who's actually putting in the work.

Sam Mendes' ambitious four-film project, with each Beatles member getting their own cinematic treatment, could either be a masterstroke or a complete disaster. The fact that they've cast Harris Dickinson as John, Paul Mescal as Paul, and Joseph Quinn as George suggests someone's at least thinking about actors who can handle the emotional complexity rather than just the surface resemblance. Though one does wonder if Mescal's recent Oscar nomination for "Aftersaid" gives him enough gravitas to tackle McCartney's particular brand of diplomatic charm masking steely determination.

The beauty of Keoghan's casting is that Ringo, whilst musically underestimated, was always the most psychologically complex Beatle in many ways. The man who survived childhood illness, emerged from Liverpool's grimmest circumstances, and somehow maintained his sanity whilst his three bandmates lost theirs in various spectacular fashions deserves more than the usual comic relief treatment. If Keoghan can capture even a fraction of that resilience beneath the familiar wit, he might actually contribute something worthwhile to the Beatles mythology.

Speaking of authenticity, the Beatles in Mono vinyl box set has crawled back from the grave after an 11-year absence, though at £430 it's priced like a small mortgage payment. Still, for those who remember when original pressings cost the same as a pint and a packet of crisps, the current Discogs median of £1,000 makes this reissue look positively charitable.

These are proper AAA pressings, mastered at Abbey Road using the same procedures from the '60s, which means someone actually cared enough to do it properly rather than just cranking out another cash grab. Sean Magee and Steve Berkowitz handled the mastering without any digital interference, guided by the original transfer notes made by the engineers who first cut these records when the Beatles were still together and EMI knew what it was doing.

The set includes the first nine mono UK albums from Please Please Me to the White Album, plus the American Magical Mystery Tour compilation, because apparently we're still pretending Capitol Records knew what they were doing with those butchered early releases. The inclusion of Mono Masters for the non-album tracks shows proper attention to the completist market, whilst the hardcover book with Kevin Howlett's essays provides the sort of context that justifies the premium pricing.

What makes this reissue significant isn't just the quality – though the 180-gram vinyl pressed at Optimal Media in Germany certainly doesn't hurt – but the recognition that mono was how most of these albums were originally intended to be heard. The Beatles and George Martin spent far more time on the mono mixes, treating the stereo versions as afterthoughts for the American market. Hearing "Revolver" or "Sgt. Pepper's" in proper mono reveals details and balances that get lost in the stereo separations, particularly the way Lennon's voice sits in the mix on tracks like "Tomorrow Never Knows."

The pricing, whilst steep, reflects both the quality of the pressing and the reality of modern vinyl economics. When the original 2014 pressing commands four figures on the secondary market, £430 starts to look reasonable, particularly when you consider that the individual albums would cost nearly that much if purchased separately at current retail prices.

Meanwhile, the internet has discovered that the Beatles weren't always called the Beatles, which seems to have shocked precisely nobody who's ever read a music book written after 1970. Yes, they were the Quarrymen (named after a line in Quarry Bank High School's song, not because they had a particular fondness for industrial excavation), and yes, they briefly flirted with the Silver Beetles before landing on their final moniker.

The Reddit revelation that's got fans scratching their heads demonstrates the curious gaps in basic Beatles knowledge, even among supposed enthusiasts. "I've never thought about it before but why choose the Quarrymen as a band name?" asks one puzzled user, apparently unaware that the band's history predates their EMI contract by several years. The responses, ranging from quarry geology to school song lyrics, at least show some fans have done their homework.

John's explanation about wanting a name like the Crickets that "meant two things" has been retold more times than "Yesterday," though his yarn about a "man on a flaming pie" declaring them "Beatles with an A" remains the sort of Lennonesque wind-up that journalists have been taking seriously for 60 years. The fact that fans are still "stunned" to learn this basic Beatles prehistory suggests either the education system has some explaining to do, or the Beatles myth has grown so large that it's obscured the actual history.

The evolution from Quarrymen to Beatles via Silver Beatles reveals the typically scruffy progression of most bands' naming conventions, lacking the dramatic revelation some fans seem to expect. They weren't divinely inspired; they were teenagers trying to sound cool, just like every other band that's ever existed. The genius lay in the music, not the marketing.

More interesting is the ongoing fascination with that alleged final Lennon-McCartney writing session in November 1980. According to playwright Stephen Larsen's research, based on statements from Double Fantasy producer Jack Douglas, John and Paul had at least one Dakota writing session, with a follow-up cancelled due to what sounds like classic Beatles-era miscommunication – Paul told John was too busy, John told Paul didn't show.

If true, it's the sort of tragic missed connection that would make even the most cynical Beatles watcher reach for the tissues. The timing makes it particularly poignant – just weeks before Lennon's murder, when both men were apparently ready to explore whether "the magic was still there." Douglas's account suggests they were planning studio time in December, with a January 1981 follow-up if the initial session went well.

The Reddit tears are flowing freely over this revelation, with fans convinced a reunion was inevitable if not for December 8th. "There's no doubt in my mind we would've had a Beatles reunion in the 80s if John wasn't murdered," declares one commenter, expressing the wishful thinking that's sustained Beatles mythology for decades.

While that's probably overly optimistic – the business and personal complications were rather more complex than a simple scheduling mix-up – the story does highlight how much creative tension remained unresolved between the Lennon-McCartney partnership. Both men had evolved considerably since 1970, with John's house-husband period softening some of his earlier antagonisms and Paul's solo success proving he didn't need the Beatles for validation.

The sceptical voices provide necessary counterpoint: "Has Paul ever mentioned that? Seems like he would have when reminiscing about John." The point stands – if such a session had occurred, surely McCartney would have referenced it during the countless interviews where he's discussed their final conversations. The absence of any such confirmation from Paul himself suggests either the session never happened, or it was too painful to discuss publicly.

Yet the persistence of the story, and its emotional impact on fans, reveals something significant about the Beatles' cultural position. Forty-five years after their breakup, people still desperately want to believe in reconciliation, in the possibility that the greatest songwriting partnership in popular music could have resumed. The fact that it didn't happen makes the music we did get feel both more precious and more tragic.

Paul's ongoing discomfort with Let It Be continues to surface in these discussions, with his decades-old fury over Phil Spector's orchestral additions to "The Long and Winding Road" still evident in any conversation about the album. "I would never have female voices on a Beatles record," he declared in 1970, which sounds rather quaint now but reflected genuine artistic violation at the time.

The collaboration between Spector and Lennon on the Let It Be material, done without Paul's knowledge or consent, represents one of the most egregious examples of the breakdown in communication that characterised the band's final period. George Martin's anger – "That made me angry -- and it made Paul even angrier, because neither he nor I knew about it till it had been done" – reveals how completely the band's decision-making process had fractured by 1970.

Allen Klein's involvement, organising Spector's work through John's authorisation whilst Paul remained in the dark, demonstrates the business complications that made any creative reconciliation nearly impossible. The fact that Paul's letter requesting changes went unanswered shows how little his opinions mattered in the new power structure.

The album remains more historically significant than musically satisfying, a fitting epitaph for a band that couldn't even break up without creating more drama than most groups manage in their entire careers. Yet it contains several tracks that deserve better than their reputation as "breakup music" – "Get Back," "The Long and Winding Road" (even in Spector's version), and the title track itself all stand as genuine Beatles classics, regardless of the circumstances surrounding their release.

Today's compilation of Paul's rare negative comments about Beatles songs reveals the careful diplomatic language he's maintained for decades when discussing the band's lesser moments. His admission that he stormed out during "She Said She Said" because he hadn't yet discovered LSD suggests that even in the Summer of Love, someone had to be the responsible adult in the room.

The songs he's dismissed as "work jobs" – "Little Child," "Hold Me Tight," "What You're Doing" – represent the commercial pressures that demanded constant product even when inspiration flagged. His description of "I'm Just Happy To Dance With You" as a "formula song" acknowledges what any honest assessment reveals: not every Beatles track was touched by genius.

Yet even his criticisms reveal the perfectionist streak that drove the band's excellence. When he calls "Every Little Thing" a "failed attempt at a single" that became "album filler," he's applying the same standards that produced "Yesterday" and "Let It Be." The fact that Beatles "filler" often surpasses other bands' best efforts speaks to the consistently high bar they set for themselves.

George Harrison's reduced songwriting contributions get the usual hand-wringing treatment in today's coverage, though his own explanation remains the most honest: "If they can do it, I'm going to have a go." Sometimes the simplest explanations are the most accurate – he was working alongside the most prolific songwriting partnership in popular music, and even "Something" and "Here Comes the Sun" couldn't compete with the Lennon-McCartney hit factory.

The quotes about creative dictatorship – "you'd have to do 59 of Paul's songs before he'd even listen to one of yours" – reflect the power dynamics that ultimately made the band unsustainable. Yet they also reveal the collaborative tension that produced some of their greatest work. Harrison's frustration pushed him to write better songs; Paul's pushiness ensured those songs met the band's standards.

The timing of Harrison's creative emergence, coinciding with his spiritual awakening in India, suggests that confidence and inspiration arrived together. His collaboration with Ravi Shankar provided both musical education and personal validation that enabled him to contribute more substantially to the band's final albums.

What emerges from today's Beatles news is the ongoing tension between mythology and reality, between the industrial demands of Beatlemania and the actual human beings who created the music. Keoghan's bleeding hands suggest at least one corner of the Beatles universe is taking the music seriously rather than just the legend.

The vinyl reissue acknowledges that quality reproduction requires both technical excellence and historical understanding. The fan discussions reveal both the persistence of Beatles mythology and the hunger for new details about their story. Paul's rare criticisms remind us that even perfect pop required constant editing and occasional failure.

Whether Sam Mendes' four-film project will capture any of this complexity remains to be seen, but early signs are more encouraging than usual. After all, if you're going to mine the Beatles catalogue for another commercial venture, you might as well do it with blisters. The music deserves nothing less than complete commitment, even if – especially if – it hurts.