WHO NEEDS THE BEATLES?

Collage by Al Brandtner

WHO NEEDS THE BEATLES?

FEATURES

by Rick Johnson & J. Kordosh

Ever since the Beatles made their first splash here in 1964, they’ve been credited with everything from saving rock ’n’ roll to inventing the ’60s. It’s doubtful a grand jury would buy it, but it’s a popular myth now approaching folklore. This despite the obvious fact that quaaludes and Trans-Ams saved rock ’n’ roll and Life magazine invented the ’60s.

About the only thing they revolutionized was haircuts. Sure, they set the whole country on its ear for a while, but if it hadn’t been them, it would’ve been somebody else a half-hour later. We think Carpentermania or the entire human race going deaf would’ve been just as good, don’t you?

Sorry we asked! What’s the deal with all you Beatlecreeps anyway? The hardcores stumble around with these horrifying, podlike eyeballs and never speak of the band in a voice louder than a whisper. Half of ’em weren’t even born when all this nonsense started. Being there in ’64 is the only acceptable excuse for this impact-grovel. These second, third, fourth, etc. generation fans are scarier than a wildcat strike by the trapeze cleaner’s union.

A couple of small facts to impart and then we can go raid the pharmacy. Don’t wanna name names or anything, but it was Kordosh who said all those terrible things about John Lennon. Likewise, it was Johnson who launched the petulant nyahnyahs at Paul McCartney. You Lennon fanatics can please direct your squirt guns, torpedoes or sawed-off tuning forks at Kordo’s house...honest, he likes to discuss things that way. You three or four people who still buy McCartney’s albums can get Johnson’s home phone number from the co-author...he actually enjoys rousing debates of that sort.

JOHN LENNON:

GOOD MOURNING, GOOD MOURNING

As everyone who practices respiration knows, the Beatles consisted of the Cute One, the Funny One, the Quiet One, and the Smart One. We’ve always wondered why they didn’t need an Informal One, a Disposable One, or a parakeet that liked Little Richard, but what the hey. We didn’t get to make these guys up.

The Smart One? None other than Mr. L. himself. Not to imply that he didn’t deserve the high honor, but—considering the competition—others who could’ve been the brains of the Beatles include Pete Best, Yoko Ono, the Berlin Wall, Uncle Albert, Aunt Mimi, the millionaire and his wife, and David Lee Roth. Did we forget to mention the New Orleans Saints?

No matter. Besides being the live-in gray matter, ol’ J.L. was also The Insecure One. Howcum? Possibly he got a real, real advance copy of The Best Of George Harrison and couldn’t live with the guilt. More likely, it’s just “because.”

In any case, John practically made a career out of uncertainty, writing 5,023 more soul-searchers than the nearest competition, Barry Joel. Not that we weren’t tipped off early on, when he wouldn’t wear his specs even though his vision was 20/8,000,000. You do that and it can lead to all sorts of unforseen situations, like inadvertently impregnating your girlfriend. Whoops, wrong side, John-Boy!

Ever hot on the scent of anxiety, Long John regularly—even pantingly, submitted to all matter of mind-fucks, like TM, hanging around with David Peel, primal therapy, watching lotsa TV, and playing bobber in an isolation tank. And that doesn’t even count spending “more time on ‘Revolution 9’ than 1 did on half the other songs I wrote.” See, he admitted it himself.

And don’t kid yourselves, you devout John/Paulists out there. This guy kept his dukes up—in print—long after his unfortunate death. Consider the following Litany of Firsts Lennie recited in the last Playboy excerpt, sometime around the Beatles’ Golden Anniversary:

•“Norwegian Wood”: “The first pop song that ever had a sitar on it.” And—unfortunately—not the last.

•“Birthday : “We put the piano through a guitar amplifier and put the tremolo in, which may have been the first time that happened.” Gosh, if we could only be sure!

•“1 Feel Fine”: “I defy anybody to find a record—unless it is some old blues record from the ’20s—with feedback on it [Authors’ note-. Lotsa Marshalls being sold about then], before ‘I Feel Finel’ Everybody was doing feedback and far-out stuff, but nobody was putting it on record. Before Hendrix, before the Who, before anybody.”

•“Rain”: “It had the first backward tape on record anywhere. Before Hendrix, before the Who, before any fucker.”

Kinda makes you wonder how in the world he forgot “The first song to ever feature the word ‘Yoko’ in its title.” You remember—“The Ballad of Hendrix, the Who, Anybody and Yoko.” That’s the one George and Ringo did by themselves. Well, what do you expect from a man who publicly confessed he sang “Shwarnicnathenearness” to wrap up a tune?

What else did our boy do to keep his mind off Bob Dylan? There was, of course, the time on August 23, 1974, when he sighted a UFO from the Dakota Building, regarding the incident as “a close encounter of the first kind.” Then there was the time he turned up at halftime on Monday Night Football in search of a green card, only to suffer the humiliation of being interviewed by Howard Cosell—an experience universally regarded as a close encounter of the worst kind. Or the time he told Yoko: “We’re not fucking Sonny and Cher! Well, who was?...Gregg Allman? Sorry, eds., we keep forgetting about that context-thing. And who can forget the— hey, we forgot it ourselves! It must’ve really been something; though.

And talk about confessions!—Mr. Ono fessed up to everything this side of the Kinks being the first band to record feedback. Candor doesn’t even come close to describing his m.o.—necktie tackle honesty might be closer. His first-round shamelessness covered everything from former cruelty to women to the cover of Two Virgins (a.k.a. The Actual Butcher Cover). Of course, you’ve gotta like a guy who keeps fucking up and then goes and cashes in on it time and again, a la “Sexy Sadie,” “God,” and “I Found Out.” His more intimate confessions (mom, dad, a bout with fatness, worrying that McC. was a better anything) tended to wax a little... let’s see...oh, yeah, ridiculous. If he was still alive he’s probably admit he committed suicide.

On the off-chance that anybody’d ever take him seriously, Johnny hedged his bets in mid-career by grafting himself to the concept of peace. This, of course, while 99% of the world’s pop musicians were advocating the next half-dozen world wars. Meanwhile, staying in bed with Yoko for a couple of years might’ve been a powerful deterrent to warlike undergrads, but we have yet to see the evidence that even one Commissar could finish the phrase: “I’ve got blisters on my...” What do you say, commies? Mind? Member? Shwarnicnathenearness??

Ringo9s not all sweetness and light as a person. —Allen Klein

Other causes John-John toyed with included freeing the notorious John “Two Joints” Sinclair, the nagging “woman problem” and the alway-popular everybody-and-nobody’s-a-star. Which is a real toughie when you’re the guy who started the Beatles...sort of like Ray Kroc admitting that he really wanted to franchise ant-farms all along.

Well, r.i.p., Mr. L.; you were wacky enough to deserve that much. And don’t worry, Paul’s churning ’em out like nobody’s business. Certainly, not ours, anyway.

☆ ☆ ☆

PAUL MCCARTNEY:

MARY HAD A LITTLE LAMB,

HIS BROTHER’S NAME WAS MIKE “Yes, he’s very pretty,” said former Apple employee and wabbitlike starfucker Francie Schwartz. “Yes, he’s very charming. But who the hell is he?”

Who the hell, indeed. This guy’s got more personalities than a barrel of Sybils. Is he the wimp who admitted, “I even like the Osmonds for what they do?” Is he the admirable sickie who originally conceived the warm and cuddly Butcher cover? Or how about the hopelessly sentimental twerp that Linda Eastman hooked by sending him a sucker-photo of himself with her baby superimposed over his cowfrenzy lips? Or is he really dead?

Who can tell? For a fella who can “never resist the opportunity to play himself,” he’s got more selves to play than the entire careers of Bobby Bonds and Leonardo da Vinci. As he told Jann Wenner, “When you play with yourself, you get involved like I.” Dear Editor, what does “out of context” mean?

Offhand, I’d say that insecurity affects him on a level comparable to the anxiety of switching from cloth diapers to Pampers. It’s no wonder the guy’s cracko. He was so Yoko-brained at one point in 1968 that he built a private meditation dome in his backyard. Glass on three sides. Indirect lighting. Butter warmer. Plus, a circular platform on a hydraulic lift that ascends into the glass dome at the push of a button.

Probable perjurer and orifice roulette ace Francie told one reporter that Paul “sometimes felt he wasn’t manly enough.” What’d he do, catch his reflection in his patent leather piggybank? “He bitched at me when I gazed at him while he was driving,” she says, “but he never bitched at me when I went down on him at 90 mph.” She must’ve carried a pair of opera glasses.

“I’m not satirical” is one of his most famous shots at his “image.” Who could argue? The big pigeon’s obviously so far gone into All My Paulies that he’s beyond satire or even parody.

Picturing Mac as anything but a wimp’s wimp is as difficult to imagine as a water tower with a Mohawk. After all, who was it that sided with Brian Epstein on the issue of wearing ties? Who wrote a song for Peggy Lee in lieu of champagne for a dindin date? Whose fave Beatle gig was the Royal Variety Show with Maurice Chevalier? And when pre-Beatles John and Paul appeared as the Nurk Twins, who do you think was the Nurk?

As Lennon pointed out, the only reason “we let Paul into the band was ’cause he could play ‘Twenty Flight Rock’ and looked a little like Elvis.’ We’re talking about Elvis way back before he bloated into a one-man pool supply store. Said another ex-Apple plastercaster, “Paul is John’s princess.”

He’s apparently so loveable that teens of all nine sexes still hang around the gate of his home, hoping for a mere glimpse of the renowned fawn-butt. He eats it up, too. He’s been known to break out a guitar and “croon to them all night long,” even though they scrawl graffiti all over like rub my bishop, Paul favors Americans and Mick Jagger’s cock is bigger than all the Beatles put together.

Absolutely true. As Francie Baby confessed, “When Paul showed it to me, I said I thought it had no balls. He didn’t understand what I meant.”

She was talking about cover art, but who cares?

You look at Mac-man and you think, this guy’s about as bad as a^ Visine junkie. He plays sweater music to dozing embryos. He’s got a gift shop in his mind. He’s tried damned hard to be Uncle Paul to every Huey, Dewey and Louie in Beatledom.

But Paul as Mr. Nice is as bizarre a construct as a perfect day for a pet show. He was the one, after all, who shut up the director of Let It Be with a terse, on camera, “We’ll do the numbers. WE’RE THE BAND!” He Once described Apple as “a western form of Communism,” and refused to play the hokey-holy Bangla Desh concert unless the Beatles partnership was legally ''dissolved. Furthermore, he hates to shave, the true measure of off-the-chart testosterone levels in the male chain of arf-arf.

His Air Florida Flight 90 side has—for the most part—been expressed in his business dealings. The first Beatle to wise up to the fact that Apple was doing to their bank account what big, nasty convicts do to Paulie-types in prison, he was then spray-painted the villain by norie less than Allen Klein, who insisted Paul was simply “jealous” of a contract that Kleiri had negotiated for the Stones.

Abkco-tongue’s ravings aside, kissy-face did drop some early clues that he was taking care of his own financial King Dons. He fiad the unnerving habit of referring to the rest of the group as “they” instead of “we” and is oft-accused of trying to boss the other moptops around at the recording sessions.

According to then-engineer Hurricane Smith, “George used to get put down like a dog by Paul” in the studio. “He’d mutter something under his breath and slink off to the corner.”. While we consider making George play dead the best idea since wind-up food, there was a Ringo problem as well. More on that later. -

Our personal favorite of Francie S.’s many accusations is this anonymous hate note he supposedly sent to John and Yoko: “You and your Jap tart think you’re hot shit.”

Alright! We’re starting to like this guy!

The single most controversial joke Paul ever played on the public was his-marriage to Linda Eastman. So what? Who the hell cares if he married the Hagar Twins, Little Ricky, or the Dave Clark Five?

That might’ve been the case had he not force-Slurpeed his beloved lard blossom on an already disgusted world. Biz-wise, the most galling incident was the cancellation of all photographic sessions just prior to, the release of Venus & Mars, so that only Linda’s photos could be used. As Patrick Salvo said, “Why - should a mediocre photog be billed above a musical titan like Denny Laine?” And he was right. Mrs. Mat’s Venus-duh is surpassed only by the Russians’ Venera 14 spacecraft, which landed on the planet’s surface and then took a ground sample of its own lens cap.

Petty bullshit abounds, particularly in the case of 01’ Dpe Eyes’ falling out with Klein. Stuff like promo copies of his early LPs mailed from the Eastman offices in NYC having the Ablco address covered with black tape. That’s almost as slimy as was Lillian Roxon’s initial introduction of the vile tweetybirds to each other. Well, we took care of her.

How does the persona-swarm himself sum up his frequently-ridiculed marriage? “I get the horrors every morning about 9:00 when 1 get my toast and tea.” Aw, that’s not nice. Could be the nastiest insinuation since Greil Marcus described the fun couple as “the petit bourgeoise alternative to John and Yoko,”

In the words of Paul’s invitation to live audiences to make birdcalls during his performance of.“Bluebird”: AWK!?

GEORGE HARRISON:

SPILL THE WINE

A common question—hell, everybody asks it at one time or another—is: “Why was I born?” Not being much into the gosh-and-golly school, we’d rather start with the easy stuff and work our way up. You know: “When will another tune about Jacques Cousteau go Top 40? Why won’t Indiana go on daylight savings time?” And, since we’re in the middle of an article here: “Why was George Harrison born??”

Tougher to figure than the number of Handy 2-plys needed to bag Aunt Bee out of the crematorium? Well, mebbe. There’s 1001 answers, of course, the more popular including: 1) To make Carl Perkins feel “just swell” that a Beatle couldn’t play his licks as good as him; 2) To put Ravi Shankar onstage everywhere, threatening to turn pop music into the expansion team of entertainment; 3) To do the entire world a tremendous facor by TMing Mike Love (hey, we’d like it on our resumes); and 4)...the answer given by 83% of our studio mammals: To supply McCartney with a highly mobile punching bag! Sic ’em, Paul, and line up l’il Stevie for the next episode of That’s Inaudible!

TURN TO PAGE 61

I’ve evolved beyond the spiritual plane where physical sex is necessary. -George

CHUCK BERRY'D PAUL

Way back in 1969, a rumor that Paul was dead—and had been since `66—swept the nation like the Snickerhol airplane's test run. Paul said his first reaction was "to think, great! Just like James Dean."

But pretty soon there was a “Paul Is Dead Society” at Hofstra University, and countless AM radio station contests; Seances to contact the departed doughboy wobbled Ouija boards in rec rooms ail over America. The best one was at)a fellow named. Joe’s house in suburban Chicago. Paul was incommunicado, but—thanks to "the darkness—one of your friendly authors contacted a female ouija-wagger.

We haven’t seen a list of clues for quite some time now, but these should get you ' thinking,..or...hell, you know what we ■ mean. ...

♦When j you play “Revolution 9” backwards, you can hear someone saying “turn me on j/dead man.” Either that or “trrirt bolg heemee dunbatf’ : •

•On Sgt. Pepper’s-from cover, there’s a handjabove his head, which is supposedly a Greek or American Indian indicator of death, or a common symbol of waving. •On the back cover, his back is turned.

•On the inside of Magical Mystery Tour, another hand is hetd over his head and he’s wearing a black carnation. J, G & R are wearing white, carnations.

•If you were to, set dollar bills enrd-to-end around the Earth’s equator,' three-fourths of them would sink.

♦The cover of Abbey Road is a field day for the in-heat: Paul’s out of step with the others, he’s the only one Who’s barefoot, etc. According to, wishful thinking, it symbolizes John as the dressed-in-white tMessiah (you know it ain’t easy), George as the grave-drager (in. the non-musical sense), Paul as the corpse and Ririgo as the preacher. The VW down the roaihas the license plate v“28IF.0Tf Paul were qlive when Abbey Road came out, he would’ve been 28. Also, if he’d been alive, George wouldn’t have got so many songs on the album.

•If you hold the front Of Magtal Mystery Tour up to a mirier it will “spell out” a telephone number. If you caH it up, you’ll be “whisked away to a .magic Beatle island,” as a former Rolling Stone staffer wrote. “There’ll be a party where Paul appears to commit suicide,.or Brian Jones and Brian Epstein and Paul, or..,” -

Happy hunting, death-mutt^! &

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 45

Before you gently weep (or your guitar gently frets), let us remind you that it was Lennon himself who—in the Playboy interview—said (about George and Ringo): “It could’ve been any two other guys.” They couldn’t print it if it wasn’t true, but pretty fucking mind-boggling, isn’t it? Think of it: Iggy Pop and Geddy Lee. Lee Marvin and Marvin Gaye. Gay Talese and Rick Johnson. Masters and Johnson! Johnson & Johnson! Kordosh & Jphnson!! YOU AND THE MAILMAN!!! Any fucking body!!!! Gimme some truth, man, and don’t forget the e-z royalties.

Is it only shades of gray within the Crackerhox Condo? Naw. We’re talking about a guy who deadpanned “I’ve evolved beyond the spiritual plane where phsyical sex is necessary” 10 years ago. Plus, it was true. Georgie’s made a contribution (the kind that forces that verb tolive with “modest”) to pop culture. Don’t misunderstand, you give McMahon enough years and he’ll contribute, too. But, as someone so incredibly wise once said, “There’s good and bad within us dll,” so let’s look at the sun, sun, sun, sunny side of the street before we pass judgement on the littlest Beatle of all.

Positive contributions: Calling ham sandwiches “ham sarnies” during the Hamburgera. Saying he didn’t like George Martin’s tie. Getting deported from the Reich. Never learning to play the guitar good enough to fuck up McCartney’s bass lines. Wearing the “Stamp Out The Beatles” t-shirt. Singing “Don’t Bother Me” through his nose. Discovering the 12-string Rickenbacker without becoming God. Having the IQ to get Lennon’s help on “Taxman.” Turning, the Beatles onto acid. Collaborating with expert oinkers on “Piggies.” All of “Old Brown Shoe.” Forcefeeding a great melody onto the Fabs’ most embarrassing B-side, “The Inner Light.” Rhyming anything with “Bangla Desh.” Ripping off “He’s So Fine” for holier purposes and being the only songwriter in the world clumsy enough to convince a judge that he did. Wanting to sell advertising space to the likes of “Coca-cola, Mercedes, etc.” on the cover of Material World. Foisting off as convincing a Lennon-trib (“All Those Ham Sarnies Ago”) as Paul’s* (“I Honestly Love You, Which Is Plenty Safe Now.”)

There’s probably lots more, like being cul;e and changing Sinatra’s “mind” about Demon Rock (“Something,” which probablyBjust beat out “Chapel In The Moonlight.”) But—like we always say— there’s no reason to belabor his good points. What’s Georgie done that’s so terrible??

Negative contributions (excerpts from the upcoming three-volume set): Wasting Eric Clapton’s time—and worse, wasting our time—in a daring attempt to make the guitar the world’s most cloying instrument. Singing songs about God that even God wouldn’t play more than once. Being “really knocked out” (instead of absolutely and totally flabbergasted) that he got three songs on Revolver. “Blue Jay Way.” The entirety of his solo work. Dragging Dylan’s name through All Things Must Pass, possibly hexing Zim for eternity. Having close associations with the Asian sub-continent. Cutting into the sales of worthier dull-lit (Popsicle Love, September’s Reader’s Digest, any article by lis) by peddling his, autobiography. Singing with all the verve and conviction of NBC’s program directors. To wit: being one incredibly boring musician.

The most convincing evidence of George’s all-around ability to be lapped by the world every other minute is the fact the he simply doesn’t exist without supporting players. Listen, you give us Lennon & McCartney for a decade or so and we promise we won’t sing about how much we love the Big Boy for endlessly torturing us. Poor Hari’s hobnobbed with anyone who’s got half an idea—which is twice where he stands—about what the fuck is going on in the harum-scarum material world. This person actually went onstage with Delaney and Bonnie! Wrote a song called “Maya Love”! Never saw a bigger mess than Bahng-a-lah-desh! Like, quick, get him to the next AC/DC concert!

Well, sorry, girls,—he’s the one who’s evolved to the spiritual plane and so on. At least he’s reason one through 56 why the Beatles never got back together...we certainly don’t wish him ill, but who in the hell in their right mind would actually want him in a band? (There’s J&P saying: “Great, and let’s get George to play guitar, write, and sing just, like he used to?' Yow!!) Thank your Lb-fat Lord that life certainly goes on without him.

☆ ☆ ☆

RINGO STARR:

A.K.A. RICK ,

All examinations of Ringo must begin at The Nose. The Beak. The Happy Honker. The 01’ Schnozzarooni. The Seventh Septum of the world.

It was his no-nonsense scent organ that first set him apart from the other moptops on Ed Sullizan Day One. Couldn’t be pretty like Paul. Too vulnerable-looking to radiate condescension like John. And much too gang-adoptable to come across like George, who—even then—seemed like the kinda guy who ironed his sneakers.

The proboscis-enhanced waif who moped through most of Hard Day’s Night was a logical extension from pug to lug. He’s just such a goddamn lovable galoot that you can’t hate him unless you know anything about drums.

So how did he get from the Beatle with the beat to Mr. Barbara Bach? Let us trace his relentless nuisance finagle before Amnesty Inernational catches up to us.

If Richie Starkey had known what he was getting into when Brian Epstein talked him out of Rory Storm’s band and into the Beatles, he might still be thumping skins in scumbo limey pubs (where he belongs). As the drummy himself once pointed out, “If I had wanted to be a businessman, I would never have taken up drums.”

He rarely gets credit for his rodeo clown approach to drumming. Could have something to do with the fact that he was “rested” on many tracks, usurped for session stooges early on and Paul later.

And his vocals? Hey—we think he can sing through the Enjpire State Building’s plumbing better than anyone we’ve heard.

Our well-billed lad may have “no visible ambitions” (said R. Somma, who oughtta know), but he does have feelings. Whatever they are. The rivalry that grew between him and Paulie was one of the emotional monkey puzzles that finished off the Beatles. Here’s our miss-and-tell storyteller Francie: “There was an uptightness growing between Ringo and Paul. Extremely subtle. Paul is an excellent drummer. Frequently, he would show Ringo what to do and then Richard would seem brought down because his idea wasn’t quite the same. He tried anyway, and Paul felt some guilt.” Guilt? Is that like feelings?

As the “White Beatle” era caught up to us like an ineptly-set revenge fire, the tension tightened'. Allen Klein pointed it out: “Ringo’s not all sweetness and light as a person. There’s meanness behind those eyes if you cross him.” If not intelligence. Finally, the sniffle-vacuum himself stomped into Paul’s home studio and hollered “J don’t uianna drum no mo’!”

For some perverse reason, a totally out-of-character Mac talked him out of it. “It would sound pretty funny,” twat told twit, “to announce the group as John, Paul, George and Barry ” Not to Barry White it wouldn’t.

Linda’s luv-slave went so far as to apologize for his “slightly authoritarian drumming suggestions.” This is like slightly being identified posthumously. But Ringo swallowed the bait hook, line and singer, deciding to hang on a bit longer. At least until Kate Bush had an opening on drums.

Ringo wasn’t worried anyway, having set his sights on new, improved careers in film and as a solo snooter.

“Starring Ringo” are the second most despised words in movies, right after, “Introducing Pele.” “His genius is as a silent actor,” understated Derek Taylor, probably after catching lBig” Starr’s film debut in Candy. Ringo’s part consisted of sexually assaulting yummy young Scandinavian Ewa Aulin on top of and under a pool table. Chalk me, you fool! It was possibly the toughest assignment in filmdom since A Man Called Adam, where $ammy Davis, Jr. was asked to play himself.

Later on, as head of the Apple film division, he tried to convince the other Mersey-killers to do Let It Be Grand Ol’ Opry style. Neat idea, they said, then proceeded with the blimp attack version that was eventually shot down over an unafraid public.

Since then, he’s cleverly chosen less visible roles in less visible bombs. Who can forget his.. .uh, you know, whoever he was in Magic Christian? Or how about his starring role in That’ll Be The Day, as charismatic leader of the rock group Pear Supply? Somebody call the justice of the peach!

Then there was the alleged Western, Blindman, with the hose-nose as a gunslinger who often encouraged his adversaries to get some sleep forever. Or his fearlessly trite direction of the Metre Bolan documentary, Born To Boogie. Recently topped by his caveman weeper with wife Barbie in a film nobody can remember the title of. \

Now that didn’t take very long, did it? If you’re still with us at this point, you’ll like the brevity of his accomplishments as a solo nostril agony-muter.

First, there was Sentimental Journey, a collection of remade musical standards like “Fly Me To The Moon” and “We’re An American Band.” As English critic Nick Logan pointed out, “all it proves is that few people are less suited to sing that kind of material than Ringo.”

His next attempt at the vertical disposal of liquid wastes on twine was Beaucoups of Blues, a sordid country-western attempt recorded in Nashville. At the time, one of the authors actually considered shoplifting this disc, but wisely purchased an all-aluminum storm door closer instead.

The l’il trunk thumper finally had some luck with the singles “It Don’t Come Easy,” “Back Off Boogaloo” and the crypticallytitled Ringo LP, which the short snort himself described as “an attempt to inaugurate a Boogie Craze.”

This nonsense he parlayed into three #\ American singles: the brutal “Yellow Submarine” mutilation of “You’re Sixteen,” the stronger-than-sleep “Oh My My,” and the unbelievably moronic “No No Song,” which scored above only Mike Douglas’ “The Men In My Little Girl’s Life” on the disgustometer.

No big loot since then, but who cares ~tvith Babara B. around? His recent dud, “Back Off Boogaloo ’82” finally set to rest the notion, that he would ever make a comeback from his 1964 tonsillectomy. He still Sounds like Orson Welles is doing pirouettes on his windpipe. The future does look bright, though, Ringo having recently purchased a Doppler Radar device to calculate the speed and location of his famous “voice.”

And speaking of grimy film, the upcoming role he most coveted was that of Liberace in the remake of 1955’s Sincerely Yours (Liber gazes petulantly at the keys and delivers the oft-quoted line: “It’s not a Scrabble board.”) Tuff titty for Ringo, though—Paulie boy got the part instead. He’s already got Linda lined up to do a cameo silhouette as the letter B. %;>