The World Spinning Round (Beatles/Paul McCartney)

11. Vesuvio (pt 1)

August 1968
Paul

All summer, it had been rumored that Mick Jagger and Keith Richards were planning to open up a club in London. But they were in Hollywood recording an album, so no one thought it would happen. So imagine my surprise when I received an invite to Mick's belated 25th birthday at his very own Moroccan-themed hash den. Bring your own delirium to the Vesuvio Club, the invitation said. Enjoy a biting preview of our new album, courtesy of the moon.

Donovan had just returned from his American tour, so I invited him to join. We hadn't seen each other much since India and his hair was shaggier and his face even more bronzed. He stopped by Cavendish before the party, where we smoked a joint whilst listening to the new Aretha Franklin single. When we were good and properly stoned, we called a taxi to take us to Tottenham Court Road.

"Hold this, will you?" I asked him as I shoved an acetate into his hand. He glanced down at the label, which read only Take 4, and then back to me.

"What's this?"

"We just finished mixing a new song," I explained as we walked down the driveway. I heard the taxi come to a halt outside the gate, and the girls standing there started to get audibly excited because it meant there was a good chance that I'd walk out.

"What're you going to do with it?" he asked as we emerged onto the pavement and were immediately surrounded.

"Play it," I explained over the commotion as I flashed a generic Beatle smile toward the girls. One of them wore a red skirt so short that I could practically see her fanny. I politely averted my eyes while mentally congratulating myself for the new-and-improved Paul, who wasn't at all interested in that sort of thing.

"What, play it at the club?" Donovan sounded slightly flabbergasted. I flashed a thumbs up to the girls, then jumped headfirst into the taxi, followed by him.

"Sure, why not?" I asked once we were safely ensconced in the backseat.

"Isn't it a listening party for the Stones' new record?"

I considered this for a moment. "More like a birthday thing, I'd say."

He didn't reply momentarily, staring at the ample cleavage pressed against the window several inches from his face. Then he started to laugh as we pulled away from the kerb.

"What?" I asked.

"Do you even possess an off-switch, man?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" I wanted to feel affronted, but simultaneously, I marveled that he understood that there was no off-switch. I was on all the bloody time, whether I wanted to be or not.

He didn't reply, just chuckled the entire way to the club.

The basement lounge was a heady assemblage of beautiful tapestries and enormous, overstuffed cushions, all lit by dim Moroccan-inspired chandeliers suspended from the ceiling. A small helium-filled blimp floated around the room above our heads, and I could just make out the words written on the side:  Adjust Your Expectations. 

"Christ," I said as we stood at the entrance taking in the kaftans, all the bare skin, and an insane number of Turkish hookahs.

Before we could move further into the room, Mick waltzed up with a swagger, barechested except for a fur-lined vest. His thin legs were clad in skintight velvet trousers, and his hair was artfully mussed up.

"This is a groove," I said, offering a hand for him to slap. "Didn't know you had it in you."

"Is Yoko real?" he demanded in a low voice. "Really real?"