Lonely People

Celebration

"When I loved you, the skies were blue. When you loved me, I could clearly see."

It was difficult to believe that Molly was singing our song. She was lying right next to me, listening to the record, as her own voice flowed from the player. That was her voice, my drums, and Janice's guitar. Our music was coming from that flimsy vinyl. It was magical.

Our very first single was on the shelves. People were buying it, slowly, but they were buying it. Only a hundred or so copies had been sold, but that was enough of a kickstart to fuel our excitement. It was proof that, against all odds, someone out there truly liked us.

"I still can't believe that's you, lasses," Michael commented.

He was lying with Molly, Janice, and I in Molly's living room. We all circled around the record player with our heads lying dangerously close to the machine. A few stray hairs in Janice's braid threatened to tangle with the record. None of us cared, all we paid attention to was the music flowing out from the player. 

"Believe it, Mikey, you're listening to the sweet sounds of Revolution," I said, "On a bloody record!"

Michael laughed, "It's brilliant, it is."

"We sound different recorded," Janice commented, "It's a good different, but still, different."

The record version of us sounded better than we did live. That was only logical, as whoever sang didn't have to scream the lyrics at the top of their lungs. We didn't have to play as aggressively as we did in a live show, and that made the music sound smoother.

"You're great however you play," Michael smiled at Janice, "Especially the guitarist."

Janice blushed a deep shade of red. Molly grinned, thinking he was also referring to her. I rolled my eyes, "Glad to see where your loyalties lie, Mikey."

"You're alright, I s'pose."

I reached around to hit him in the shoulder, earning a loud laugh. Michael scooted further from me and continued to laugh. I simply huffed.

The story behind the recording session that created that record was terrible, but listening to our music come from a record player made all of those memories wash away. It was worth the pain, the heckling, and the constant fear to create something for people to hear whenever they wanted. We were truly becoming something beyond the three girls who occasionally played at a club. I was becoming something other than The Beatles' ex-drummer.

It started off slowly. A few shows and a single or two on the shelves was all we could manage at the time. Eventually, we would have albums, tours, maybe even a performance in The Royal Albert Hall. I could see it in my mind's eye; we were going somewhere.

To the Toppermost of the Poppermost.

"Someone get the bloody door," Molly sighed.

I frowned, "I'll get it, you lazy bum."

"You're too kind."

I laughed loudly and I headed to the door. It was late in the evening, and we weren't expecting any guests. We all expected the same people. Only four people in the city would knock on Molly's door that late, and I counted my bets on which it could be. 

"'Ello, Melly!" John exclaimed as soon as I opened the door.

He had his arm around a heavily pregnant Cynthia. Her dress didn't do anything to cover the giant lump in her stomach. Behind him, George, Ringo, and Paul grinned at me. I casually leaned against the doorframe and asked, "What're you doing here?"