Yeah Yeah Yeah (Beatles/Paul McCartney)

1. The Christmas Album

October 1965 - Four Months Later
London

Paul

When I walked into the EMI studios that day, I truly didn't anticipate that I'd quit the band.

I was, as usual, late. But Ringo was usually 15 minutes late, so, really, I was 5 minutes early. I strolled over to where my bass leaned against a metal chair next to John.

"Eppy's at it again," he said, tilting his head to indicate our manager, who was in the control room looking exasperated.

"He's at what again?" I asked as I sat down, looking at John scribbling furiously in a notebook next to me. "What're you working on?"

"The Beach Boys released a Christmas record last year, didn't they?" Brian asked rhetorically from his perch behind the glass wall in the control room, his voice from the speaker bouncing off the soundproofed studio walls.

Without looking up from the notebook, John waggled his head and sang "Merry Christmas baaaaaaaby," in an exaggerated imitation of Brian Wilson's falsetto. The studio door opened just behind me, and I shifted my leg so that our manager could walk to the center of the room.

Brian was about to continue when Ringo strode into the studio with a flurry of hiyas. He threw his satchel next to the drum risers and sat behind the kit. "All right, lads?" he asked, looking around expectantly.

John finally looked up and over at our drummer. "Bri's trying to talk us into the Christmas album again."

Ringo groaned audibly as Brian forged ahead.

"Fellows, I know what you're thinking. But the Beach Boys' album was quite well-received--"

"Yeah, well, the Beach Boys do a lot of things," George muttered, his head bent over his guitar. As I pondered what he meant by that, I picked up John's acoustic guitar and began to mindlessly strum a chord. Next to me, John started to sing Help me Rhonda! Help, help me Rhonda!

"Now that's a cracking tune," I said, looking up. "Really first-rate."

"Is it?" John asked, tearing out the piece of paper he'd been scribbling on. He balled it up and threw it in the general direction of the bin. "Do you like that tune, Paul? I wasn't sure since it's not as if you went onto that radio programme waxing poetic about it--"

"I just said I liked it!" I replied with my hands up in innocence. "The bloke asked what music I'd been listening to, and I just said--"

"--waxing poetic about it for five bloody minutes," John continued, a good-natured grin on his face.

Brian then tried to regain control of the conversation.

"Look, the thing is, their record was quite well-received--"

"It's just not, y'know, us," George interrupted. "It's a fucking drag, Brian; I dunno why you keep bringing it up. Have we run out of money, is that it?"

"I believe their album hit #6 in the States," our manager interrupted as if he hadn't heard either George and as if he didn't know the Beach Boys' record sales by heart.

I put down the Gibson and ran a hand across my forehead. My fringe was getting so long that it was always in my eyes. In fact, looking around the room, we were all starting to look a bit like shaggy dogs.

"Bri," I said, "we have a #1 hit in America right this very moment, don't we?"

Next to me, John started to sing our latest hit in double-time in an exaggerated Liverpudlian accent. Yesterdaaaaaaaayallmytroublesseemedsofarawaaaaaaay.