The World Spinning Round (Beatles/Paul McCartney)

22. A Word that Rhymes with Pamplemousse

February 1969
Paul

EMI after midnight was the best. It was guaranteed to be quiet, but not eerily so. Just enough activity to know that others were also focused on getting the perfect take or fiddling with the soundboard or just night owls. But not enough people in the building where I felt like my every move was being watched and chronicled.

I'd popped by to say hi to The Kinks, not meaning to stay long at all, but it has been such a shit day that I allowed myself to get sucked into the music. They were working on a bloody good song, and I'd ended up playing a tambourine on the final two takes. 

I stood in front of the studio door, debating whether to go home and face the music or get a drink an one of my usual haunts. I was so caught up in my indecision that I neglected to hear the footsteps approaching.

"The girls outside would cream themselves if they knew two Beatles were here."

I flinched involuntarily at the unexpected voice behind me, then straightened and whirled around. Geoff Emerick leaned casually against a wall with a knowing look on his face. His lanky frame was clad in a button-down shirt and corduroys. He'd grown a bit of a stubble, which transformed his face from the usual boyishness to something slightly more mysterious.

"Oh, hey," I said, trying to pretend like he hadn't taken me off-guard. He tilted his head toward the studio from which I'd just exited.

"Are they still at it?"

I nodded and scrubbed a hand over my face. "Yeah, just popped by, y'know... ended up overstaying my welcome, maybe."

His eyes lit up. "Did they play the one about the woman who's a man? They were noodling around with it last night."

I shook my head. "No, they--" I paused as his earlier words sunk in. "Did you say two Beatles? Who else is here?"

He pushed himself off the wall and nodded his head toward Studio 3, which was the smallest in the building. We'd never recorded in it, but we'd smoked quite a lot of grass there over the years. The red light above the door flickered on, then off, then on again like whoever was at the desk couldn't decide what was happening.

I looked at Geoff, waiting for him to reveal which of my bandmates was there. When he didn't, I shook my head impatiently.

"So... is it a secret or something?"

He leaned closer, his voice dropping like it was, in fact, a secret. "John showed up around 9. Told Nancy at the desk that he needed to get a dream out into the world. The lads from Deep Purple were meant to be recording tonight, but he bumped them and he's been doing the same bit over and over ever since."

"Huh," I said, furrowing my brow. John hated to do the same bit over and over. That was more my bag than his. "Is it any good? The bit, I mean."

Geoff ignored my question and leaned even closer as if the walls had ears. "And get this..." He paused for dramatic effect. "He's on his own."

I paused and then shook my head slightly. "...How do you mean?"

"On his own."

"There's no engineer in the booth, you mean?" I glanced back at the red light, which was still blinking off and in intermittently. I imagined the tape deck starting and stopping at random, little bits of magnetic tape whirring back and forth.

Geoff shook his head. "Ken's in there with him. Jerry was there earlier, but John ordered him out after he couldn't come up with a rhyme for 'pamplemousse'."

Reaching up to run a hand through my hair, I stared at the ceiling for a moment. "Recluse, abuse, masseuse... lemon juice if you're being cheeky about it... alright, so... who's in the studio? Why are you looking at me like a fucking Cheshire cat?"