There's something oddly compelling about watching four leather-clad lads from Liverpool playing to a crowd of sweaty teenagers in a dank cellar on Matthew Street, especially when you know they're about to become the biggest bloody thing since sliced bread. Not that anyone really knew it yet, mind you, except perhaps their new producer George Martin, who was probably sitting in his office at EMI that very morning, puzzling over how to make "Please Please Me" sound less like a dirge and more like a hit record.
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