More From Hamburg

Visions

His happy state continued – life maintained its previous routine of perform and sleep and eat but now the added dimension, previously closed to him, lifted him onto a new level of confidence, of equality with the others. Well, with Paul; and George Harrison was even seen to smile more on stage. The difference was however largely in his head, and meanwhile the group continued as before and got better and louder and tighter and the customers continued to love them, in spite of or perhaps because of their unorthodox presentation.

"Thank you, thank you, now fuck off." John acknowledged the applause and yells of their audience at the end of one typical night.

"Thank you very much," added Paul, with an appeasing smile, even though none of their adoring punters seemed in any way offended by John's unusual stage patter. George smiled and nodded, his attention on his guitar rather than on anyone else, and carefully lifted the strap over his head.

"Seeya," came a voice from the other side of the club, and John looked up in time to see Pete disappearing out of the far door. John shrugged.

"Fuck off then," he said into dead space. He looked at Paul. "Drink?"

Paul too was taking his guitar off, and he looked up and nodded. "Where?"

"Kaiserkeller?"

"Yeah, okay. George?"

"Give us a minute," and George hopped down from the low stage and headed towards the door that led out to the toilets.

"Stu?" asked John, but his friend pointed to the door through which Pete had just left. Astrid was standing quietly in the shadows. Stu smiled apologetically at John and shrugged his shoulders.

"Well, you can fuck off too." But there was no animosity in John's voice and he too smiled at his friend before turning back towards Paul. Across the club a door slammed, and George bounced back towards the two remaining Beatles.

"Ok then. Where's Stu?"

"Astrid."

George nodded. The three stowed their guitars at the back under the stage as always, and then turned and strolled together out of the club. A few punters were still sitting slumped over their tables nursing the dregs of their drinks and they looked up at the boys as they passed and nodded – high praise from that clientele. Lights were so low they were nearly off, the bar staff were wiping glasses and straightening mats, a car horn sounded from outside, someone gave a sharp shriek that could have signalled anything and which was ignored by everyone inside the club.

It was three am.

The Beatles had been playing onstage for seven hours. Yet, no-one felt anywhere near tired enough to think of retreating to the dump they lived in. Prellies were still buzzing through their system, eyes were wide and darting about, fingers were tapping, gum was being vigorously chewed. They stomped out of the front doors of the Indra and, hands bunched in pockets and shoulders hunched, they stalked in step along the Grosse Freiheit and turned into the Kaiserkeller, the club they'd wanted to play in when they first arrived, the one they knew would still be fairly lively at this time of night. Or morning. Such distinctions now meant little to the three lads from Liverpool. They moved together, confidently, through the dingy entrance hall and into the club, almost as dark and closed up as the one they'd just left, but a band still on stage and the bar still dispensing drinks. Paul and George sat at down a table near the stage while John got the beers in. It was his turn and, astonishingly, he'd remembered and, even more astonishingly, paid up without protest.