Photo and article by Kelly O'Toole
Twenty years ago, I was a freshman at Central Michigan University when my editor at CM Life assigned me the story about 1964's upcoming performance on campus. Alas, the article was meant to promote the event beforehand, so I never interviewed the group. This was a time before cell phones and e-mail, after all. I never saw them perform, either. Tickets were far too expensive for a full-time student with no paying job. So on Friday, February 19th, when I found myself on the sidewalk outside the Temple Theatre looking up at the marquee announcing, "1964. . .The Tribute," I felt the quivery giddiness of a freshman co-ed about to see her rock idols in concert for the first time.
Pseudo-idols, anyway. I've been a Beatles fan since high school. John Lennon and George Harrison are dead, of course, and Paul McCartney and Ringo Starr are senior citizens now. But 1964 members Mark Benson, Tom Work, Gary Grimes and Terry Manfredi sing and play as John, George, Paul and Ringo, respectively. Their act recreates a mid-sixties Beatles concert. I was born seven years after the Beatles's first visit to America and one year after they broke up, so I never saw the Beatles perform outside of videos. 1964 would be the closest thing to a Beatles concert I would ever get. I had high expectations that Friday night. I wasn't disappointed.
Every Temple Theatre employee greeted my husband and me with a warm smile. Not a fake smile, either. When staffers asked, "How may I help you?" their eyes and voices suggested they truly wanted to help us, in whatever way we needed helping.
As I waited for my Coke and Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, I noticed the disparity in ages and clothing of the other guests. There were gray-haired grandparents, middle-aged mothers and fathers with their grade school children, and plenty of teens and twentysomethings. There were people in dressy shirts and slacks, people in Beatles t-shirts and jeans, and a few women in cocktail dresses escorted by men in tuxedos. Some people had multiple facial piercings and tattoos, and others looked as if they would rather slam their fingers in a door than get pierced or inked. That these disparate groups would come together to see one band is a testament to the far-reaching impact of the Beatles, and by extension, their most famous tribute band, 1964.
My husband and I were shown to our seats and we took in the décor of the Temple Theatre. The plush velvet seats and the ornately decorated ceilings and walls all suggested the grandeur of a time long past. It seemed the perfect setting to see a Beatles tribute. I half-expected to see the Queen of England in attendance.
1964's instruments were set up on the stage. There were the familiar Vox speakers, Paul's fiddle-shaped bass and John's black-and-white Rickenbacker guitar. Replicas of them, anyway. Even the 1964 logo on the bass drum was painted in the same lettering that had once appeared on Ringo's drum. The show hadn't even started yet, and already I felt as if I'd stepped into a time machine and traveled back in time.
1964's CD All You Need Is Live played as guests found their seats. The illusion that I had gone back in time to witness a Beatles concert was shattered momentarily when I heard the opening notes of "I'm a Believer." That's a famous song by the Monkees, not the Beatles. But when the voices began, they didn't sing "I'm a Believer." They sang "Paperback Writer." The organ and guitar from "I'm a Believer" cut in between verses of "Paperback Writer" throughout the song. At first it seemed such a bizarre juxtaposition that I didn't like it. But by the time the song ended, I thought it was groovy, psychedelic, and far-out, indeed.
1964 strolled casually onstage before Scott Stein from WHNN even finished introducing them. The applause rose up in a great wave—maybe not as loud as that for the real Beatles, but loud enough. Mark, Gary, Tom and Terry wore khaki jackets with white shirts and black ties over slim black pants—the costumes the Beatles wore when they sold out Shea Stadium in August of 1965.
They picked up their guitars and drumsticks and tore into a song list that played like the Beatles's Greatest Hits, The Early Years: "I Saw Her Standing There," "I Wanna Hold Your Hand," "From Me to You." Gary played the bass left-handed, just like Paul. And he jerked his head in that strange way Paul had that was almost a nervous twitch, but sexy. Mark played both the harp and the guitar on "Love Me Do," my first and favorite Beatles song, and "Please Please Me," one of my least favorite Beatles songs. Their voices blended in beautiful Beatlesque harmony on "This Boy," which struck me as perversely ironic, considering the men on stage were in their fifties, hardly boys. However, my cynicism soon washed away in the stream of flowing guitar licks and floating voices.
Ringo—er, Terry—took the lead on "Act Naturally" and "Yellow Submarine." He tossed a drumstick into the crowd and hammed it up during the enthusiastic applause. Young girls shrieked and screamed, "I love you, Ringo!" The audience participation number "Eight Days a Week" received tremendous applause, as well. What was most tremendous, though, is the aforementioned group of disparate souls clapping in time and singing,"I ain't got nothin' but love, babe / Eight days a week."
After an intermission, 1964 reappeared onstage in the famous black suits. The music was mostly toe tappers and finger snappers, as in the first set. "Twist and Shout" started off the second half with fervor. People clapped without coaching this time. They danced in the aisles. I was pleased to hear "Daytripper" among the many other fantastic songs. I had fallen in love with Paul over the bass line on that one. Mark announced at one point that he wanted everyone in the crowd to take out their cell phones and call a special someone who wasn't able to attend the show. Then he strummed the first notes of the lovely "In My Life." I have to confess, a tear or two slipped down my cheek at the sight of twelve hundred people holding their cell phones in the air so their absent loved ones could be part of the show for three minutes. The person I phoned was my sister, who didn't answer, but when she checked her voicemail the next day, she heard 1964 serenading her.
Hailing from Ohio, 1964 looked and sounded very much like the Fab Four from Liverpool, England. Between songs, they bantered with one another in Liverpudlian accents. My favorite comic moment was when Tom complained that boots are uncomfortable, "but they make your bum look good." He turned and lifted a flap of his jacket. When the crowd whistled and cheered, Mark quipped, "You got more applause for your guitar solo."
At the end of the show, the audience gave the group a hearty standing ovation. Before 1964 could reclaim the stage for their encore, my husband and I slipped out to the lobby to get a prime spot in the line for autographs. Sadly, this is when the warm and fuzzy sense of unity among the fans dissipated, and my experience was almost ruined.
A gentleman from 1964's crew politely pointed my husband and me to the place where the line for autographs would begin. I couldn't believe our luck that we were the first ones there. As people trickled out from the theater, they lined up behind us. Moments after the encore ended, three men reeking of beer cut right in front of the line and one of them bellowed, "Look at us! We're first in line!"
Some of the people in line shouted, "Hey! The back of the line is back here!"
"We were here first," the Tactless Trio called back. Then the man from 1964's crew approached and told the louts that they would have to go to the end of the line.
"That's bull****!" shouted the man I'll call Silver Hair. "We're not going all the way back there. We were here first!"
For twenty minutes, dozens of teenagers and twentysomethings had deferentially taken their places in line without a grumble. Then these three middle-aged drunks swaggered in and behaved as if the principles of civilized behavior didn't apply to them. I don't think I've ever felt so embarrassed for an entire generation.
"You were here first?" I rasped at the closest of the three. "Are you in kindergarten?" He turned to me and I felt a prickle of fear for a second, but I figured if he tried anything, I would give his ponytail a good yank.
My husband had a little more sense. "Shhh!" he hissed. "There are three of them and only one of me."
Ponytail merely stuck his nose in the air and repeated his completely dishonest defense, "We were here first."
Meanwhile, several theater employees ordered the drunks to the end of the line, but six-foot-three Silver Hair and his pals were defiant. Suddenly, 1964 was in our midst, taking their seats behind the table. Silver Hair and Ponytail and Forgettable Man stepped right over the velvet rope ahead of all of us in line. They shook each band member's hand and bowed their heads as they uttered their appreciation with all the humility of choir boys. 1964 had no idea what had just happened, so they cheerfully shook hands and posed for pictures while those of us in line fumed. The Tactless Trio took their time, apparently sharing their life stories with every member of the group, and snapping several photos. Finally an employee said firmly, "That's enough pictures. People are waiting!" Another employee, one who matched Silver Hair in size said, "You need to leave. Now." Some of us cheered, albeit under our breaths.
All I could say was "good show" as I handed the fellows my program so they could sign it. Terry looked up at me expectantly, but I couldn't even smile. I couldn't even think; all I could do was feel, and I didn't like the way I felt—the way the Tactless Trio made me feel: helpless and ineffectual. I followed them out the door and watched them congratulate themselves. I am ashamed to say that within their earshot, I made some disparaging remarks about their intelligence. I couldn't make out their replies. I know I'm lucky they didn't turn around and belt my husband one. I wish I would have said, "What would the Beatles think?"
Afterward, my husband sought to cheer me up with some decadent desserts at a Saginaw Township restaurant. Once the sugar from the deep-fried Twinkies and Oreos sweetened my mood, I was able to look past the disappointment of the aftershow events and appreciate the magic of the show itself. Maybe Gary and Terry looked more like Micky Dolenz and Peter Tork of the Monkees than Paul and Ringo. Maybe none of them really looked much like the Beatles at all from up close. Maybe I didn't hear any of the psychedelic or experimental stuff like "Strawberry Fields," "Eleanor Rigby" or "Lucy in the Sky (with Diamonds)." But they sang with all the heart and talent of the real thing, and for two hours on a cold Friday night in Michigan, twelve hundred people were at peace with one another, and it seemed that love really is all we need: the love of rock 'n' roll, and the love of the Beatles.
© Kelly O'Toole, 2010