january 17 the world isn't round, it's twisted and bent 'The time has come,' the Walrus said,
'To talk of many things:
Of shoes - and ships - and sealing wax -
Of cabbages - and kings -
And why the sea is boiling hot -
And whether pigs have wings.'It was a bad day all 'round. He was drunk, or getting there, and he was pissed off. He wasn't totally sure what came first, but he had a general sense of the order of things. He might have been the youngest of the set of them, but he knew what was what, he knew that when the Big Boss came to see a show and didn't like it, they were damn well likely to hear about it later, and that was the part he hated. It was art, goddamn it, pretty music was a kind of art, particularly when the others were playing with him, and who was this Big Boss who ran the label, anyway? Who did he think he was? Sure, he'd been nice. He took them to a castle way up north and they spent the weekend in luxury they'd never seen before, or since. He was nice enough, when he liked them.
Today, since New York, he didn't like them very much. And Paul decided he didn't like the Big Boss very much either, just for spite. He was going to tell him so. He was going to tell the Big Boss to go piss off.
So the others told him just not to come. They kicked him out, temporarily, and sent him off with some hangers-on and said, Don't interfere. This is business. If you're going to be pissed and then tell him off, even if he deserves it, take it somewheres else.
And that brought him to this half-open, half-assed bar with two remaining hangers on, both of whom he knew pretty well. There had been four, at one point, three of whom were paid to be with him, but two of those four -- local record label nobodies -- wanted to see a band just up the street. So they handed him over to his roadie and the writer woman who showed up, usually with beer. She'd met Liz from the Cocteau Twins. She was all right. And they all sat around the table while he groused and moaned about the general state of things. And drank.
They talked about the record. It wasn't doing so great. What was wrong with it? He knew he could trust her opinion. People paid her to have an opinion, and he was just going to ask for it. She told him. Songus interruptus, she said; the songs built to this orgasmic climax, and then died. It was a shame. He didn't disagree.
She'd been honest. She was a friend.
Want the real story?
She did.
He would tell her, he would explain. But first he would lean over and say: Don't tell anyone. It was like a state secret, the way he put it forward. The roadie also leaned forward: Don't, he warned. Paul told him to go get some more drinks.
She leaned forward. They sat close and he said there was a reason the second record wasn't like the first. The first had been a real gem, hadn't it? The music just blended with the lyrics, which were smart and not forced, they had beautiful wordplay, not silly words colliding. There were remnants of that on this record, he knew, but he also knew the truth -- there was no way the second could be like the first.
And here, he said, is why.
Ever hear of Paul Forde?
She had. He was thanked on the back of that first, perfect single.
Yeah, well, Paul, not me Paul, but this Paul Forde -- he started the band. With the rest of us. He was the first drummer. And he was the kind of guy who fixed things.
He paused. You like John, he acknowledged. She glanced away, but it was true.
Well, John was kind of a fuckup, he said, although he didn't use those words. Liked pot too goddamned much. Got arrested for it. Put in jail. Paul, the other Paul, not me Paul, he bailed him out. That's the kind of guy he was.
Later, she would wonder if John had a record how he could come to this country, but it wouldn't occupy too much thought.
So, he continued, we needed a singer. And we found a great one.
We found Frank. She agreed. Frank was the skinniest man she'd ever met, but he had the Morrissey imitation down pat. He was damned good.
He went on: There was one problem. Frank was perfect. But he and Paul -- the other Paul -- didn't get along. They hated each other. And in the end, one of them had to go. So Paul quit, for the sake of the band.
He what?
Yeah, he did. And the thing is this:
She waited.
He wrote the lyrics and a lot of the music on the first record. That's mostly him. And that's the truth.
So what do you say when your Beatles tell you John and Paul -- the Beatles' Paul, not this Paul, and not that other Paul -- didn't really write Abbey Road? What do you say?
You say nothing.
Until, years later, in a pub on their turf, she decided to.
So, she told Paul -- this Paul, not the other Paul -- I'd like to meet this John Forde guy.
Paul Forde? he asked, bemused. Whatcha want him for?
Yeah, him. The one you told me about. I wanna meet the guy who wrote the first album.
Did it go silent around the table? Did it?
He asked, quietly, What did I say?
Oh, you know.
But he didn't remember. Or had he been lying way back there, when he was drunk, saying things he shouldn't have?
Maybe Stephen would know....
