Now They're Sixty-Four

All aboard the “Magical Mystery Tour” en route from London to Liverpool

Today marks the closing day of International Beatleweek, held in Liverpool, England, an annual celebration of Beatles fans and tribute bands that’s been going in some form or another since 1977. Does it sound insanely overwhelming? I can testify that it is exactly that. In 2003 I traveled on assignment to this geekfest, and rode along with a busload of attendees from London to Liverpool. I loved The Beatles as a kid, and listened to all the records. But on this trip I felt like I was strapped to a chair and wearing electrodes, subject of a strange pop-culture psychiatric test: What is your personal Beatles threshold? Which song will push you over the edge? How much Beatles can you be confronted with, before you turn into a babbling idiot, and a woman in a white lab coat ticks a mark on a clipboard and says, “Okay, turn it off, I think he’s had enough.” I lasted only one night, and took the train back to London the next morning. A slightly different version of this story was first published in Travelocity magazine.

A grazing sheep lifts its head as two buses roar through the English countryside, blaring loud music. If this sheep understood language, it might recognize the lyrics: “Close your eyes and I’ll kiss you, tomorrow I’ll miss you!” These are the Magical Mystery Tour buses, traveling from London to International Beatleweek, a week-long Beatles festival in Liverpool. 

The tour’s Pied Piper is Charles F. Rosenay, a Connecticut DJ with dyed blond hair who has hosted these excursions for 18 years. [Note: he’s still doing it today.] I sit with Rosenay and he excitedly describes a worldwide circuit of festivals and tribute bands named Fab Faux and Banned on the Run. I don’t know exactly what to think. I mean, the Beatles were a great band. But they broke up 30 years ago. Two of them are dead, another got knighted, and who knows what happened to Ringo.

Beneath video monitors of never-ending Beatles footage, the fans chatter and swap trivia. This $2,500 trip is their biggest of the year. Most are friendly and middle-aged, wearing ’60s-style granny sunglasses. Some are collectors, others are here to meet “dignitaries,” in this case an elderly gentleman with a white ponytail named Alf Bicknell, who was once the Beatles’ chauffeur.

Beatles fans hate being compared to Star Trek fans, but both groups share a similar insane enthusiasm. One woman is on her ninth trip. Some married couples first met each other on the tour.

Rosenay also produces a Rolling Stones-themed tour. So what’s the difference between Beatles and Stones fans?

“Stones fans party a little more. They’re hung over every day.” He thinks a moment. “Stones fans also don’t want to hear anything about the Beatles.”

A gray-haired man wearing a John Lennon T-shirt approaches Rosenay, and asks if he can play his audio cassettes. 

“Wait awhile,” says Rosenay.

“But these are a set,” says the fan, revealing his meticulously packaged homemade tapes. “With Gerry and the Pacemakers.”

“In awhile. The videos are playing right now. It’s better if they can both watch and listen at the same time.”

The guy nods, and takes his seat. Soon, he will get to play his music.

Rosenay turns to me: “You gotta be diplomatic.”

We stop at a roadside restaurant for a remarkably grim British lunch. Fans cluster around the chauffeur, listening to every word he says. I feel left out. I wonder, will there ever be music nostalgia for my generation? Will I ever tour the sights and smells of the hometown of Aerosmith? Would I even want to?

A ferry ride across the Mersey River to Liverpool is punctuated over the sound system by “Ferry Cross the Mersey.” Which of course, it has to be, I suppose. The boat docks, and an American woman runs down the ramp, falls to her knees, kisses the cement, and exclaims: “I made it! I can’t believe I’m here! We’re in the Holy Land!” 

Locals waiting in line for the ferry watch this scene without expression. Happens every year.

Most of the Atlantic Ocean’s shipping comes through the shipyards of Liverpool, a raucous working-class city with a distinctive regional accent. But tourism has now surpassed the shipping industry. Half a million people come here each year because of the Beatles. 

Down in the narrow streets of the Cavern Quarter, nightlife is booming. The reconstructed Cavern Club, alleged birthplace of the Beatles, features a tribute band from Brazil. Another group from New York does two sets and a costume change, but their pitch-perfect Liverpudlian accents drop off between songs: “Hey! Howya doin’? Wuh from da Bronx!”

There are certain rules if you want to be a Beatles tribute band. Rule 1: Sound exactly like the Beatles. This is God’s music. Don’t ruin it. Rule 2: Look exactly like the Beatles. Mop-top wigs, pointy boots, vintage guitars. Rule 3: The amplifiers, strangely, can be modern.

Headlining an evening at the Paul McCartney Auditorium is Neil Innes, songwriter for the Monty Python group and genius behind The Rutles, a Beatles parody act best known for the 1978 comedy film All You Need is Cash. Between songs, Innes describes how strange it is that the Rutles have become part of the Beatles culture. After all, he was making fun of the Beatles at the time. He asked George Harrison for advice, he says, and Harrison told him why not, “It’s all part of the same sloop.” The crowd sings along with each Rutles tune. Who cares if it’s parody, it’s still the Beatles!

But after hearing nothing but Beatles for 14 hours straight, I need a break. They were just a band. They didn’t walk on the moon. I wander the gray streets of Liverpool. Tourists are discouraged from going out after dark, but the most threatening presence tonight are packs of teenagers—sturdy girls in poofy hair and too-tight dresses, and pimply hooligan boys in untucked shirts. One drunken girl stumbles up to some guys and slurs, “You’re gorgeous! And you’re gorgeous!” She points at me. “And you are, too!”

I come upon the remains of a roofless church, majestically pillared with ivy crawling out the windows. A plaque on the wall reads: “This church, completed in 1831, suffered serious bomb damage during the blitz of May, 1941, was purchased by the city from the Church of England in 1968 and together with the gardens which surround it is maintained as a place of rest and tranquility.”

It hits me. This is the essence of post-WWII Liverpool—the church, the Beatles, the Cavern Club, all of it. Nothing ever really dies in Liverpool, it just crumbles into history. And someone will always want to look at the corpse.