More From Hamburg

On Stage

"Vielen Dank. Und danke fur das Bier! Unser nachstes Lied wird sein..." George paused in his halting Liverpudlian-laced German to look over at John and Paul to confirm what their next song would be. Paul was on his knees at the front of the stage smiling at a girl and making sign language to suggest that she meet him outside in three hours. John was concentrating on shaking prellies into his palm prior to knocking them back down his throat. George watched that process for a moment, during which time he'd forgotten what he wanted John for. Four pints of that fizzy beer on an empty stomach tended to do that to the concentration, and the prellies seemed like a good idea. He hadn't wanted that last pint and had tried to say thanks but no thanks, but the expression on the face of the generous donor had persuaded him that it would be better to shut up and drink up; George had forced it down. His head swam, he felt unsteady. His last pill had been hours ago, it seemed.

He turned back to the audience and smiled, his shy lop-sided smile that he'd come to realise most of the girls watching them loved. "Einen Moment" he said into the mic and crossed the stage to John, who was pocketing the tube of prellies as he drained one of the pints on the tray on the stage.

To his dismay, George saw another tray being passed over towards them. And this wasn't beer, it was schnapps. "John!"

John looked at him over the rim of the pint glass.

"Give us some." George pointed to the pocket into which he'd seen the prellies disappearing, and John dragged the tube back out and dropped it into George's outstretched palm. "Ta."

George thumbed two pills out of the tube, reconsidered and took yet another one and swallowed them altogether, dry. He hadn't quite the stomach for the schnapps yet, and hoped he could put it off for a while without anyone getting offended. Having someone get offended with you round here could mean risking having your fingers broken. He turned back to the front of the stage, and then remembered that he still had no idea what their next number was. "John!"

"What?"

"What's next?"

"Ah... Tutti Frutti."

"Paul!!"

Presumably, Paul's assignation arrangements were completed, as he was now on his feet. "What?"

"Tutti Frutti."

Paul grinned, and swung around to the mic. Without further pause, he launched in, full throated. "Bop bopa-a-lula a whop bam boo, Tutti frutti, oh Rudy..."

The others fell in behind him, automatically, immediately, resoundingly, and the audience responded with a roar. George found the chords as Pete floundered into place, and he waited for the pills to kick in. They weren't kicking in. Should he have some more? Paul was doing his nut on the other side of the stage, the drinks were on a tray on the floor, the man was looking at him, the pills weren't kicking in. He looked at Paul raving through the number. He blinked; he was aware of his eyes widening slightly and his teeth clenching. He felt a small smile quirking the corner of his mouth.

The chords flowed easily.

The pills were kicking in.

An hour later

"Gonna write a little letter, gonna mail it to ma local DJ."

George sang confidently, through a mouth that felt as if it were full of melting foam.

"It's a rockin' little record I want my jockey to play."

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Paul, grinning, stamping, playing to their audience. He wasn't sure where John was, so he must be behind him somewhere. He didn't want to turn and look...

"Roll over Beethoven gotta hear it again today."

...because he didn't want to take his eyes off the three sailors just in front of the stage a few feet away. A fight was brewing. You never knew where that might go. Best to be ready.

"You know ma temperature's risin', the jukebox blown a fuse."

The first punch had been thrown. The other customers were drawing back to give the antagonists room, leering, guffawing; two of the sailors were on to the third.

"Ma heart's beatin' rhythm and ma soul..."

George stepped back sharply. His boots were new, well, new to him. He didn't want them splattered with any of the blood which suddenly sprayed up from the unfortunate third sailor's crushed nose and split lip.

"...keeps a singin' the blues."

John was next to him now, howling encouragement, or maybe just howling. The handful of prellies he'd seen John wash down with several swigs of lager meant that John would not right now know what he was doing or saying. Fortunately, when he was in these states he still did the music. Despite screaming like a banshee he was miraculously still keeping time to the song.

"Roll over Beethoven and tell Tchaikovsky the news."

Paul was laughing so much that he fell over, but he pushed himself upright again and carried on dancing to the beat and playing his guitar. None of the audience had noticed or, if they had, they didn't care as the floorshow provided by the three sailors was more engrossing. George met Paul's eyes across the stage; Paul's wide-eyed rictus stare, George knew, matched his own exactly. His mouth was still full of foam. He needed another beer just to be able to swallow.

"I got a rockin' pneumonia, I need a shot of rhythm and blues."

The waiters were coming over and they laid about the three sailors quite indiscriminately with coshes. The rest of the audience roared approval. The three were manhandled out of the club.

"I think I got it off the writer sittin' down by the rhythm review. Roll over Beethoven, rockin' in two by two."

The audience had returned its joint attention to the boys on the stage, clapped along, stamped along, and the group responded by upping their game even more. George forgot the foam in his mouth and throat, Paul danced Chuck Berry steps across the stage and John carried on doing what John was doing and the club loved them.

They'd been on stage for three hours. They had five more to do.