OK. Manage us.
 

Way back when a guy who owned a record strore was curious about why so many people were coming in and asking for this new skittle band's records of whom he'd never heard before. Somebody said 'The Crickets' or some such hideous name for a band.

So Brian (the store owner) starts snooping around the venues in town and discovers these four guys dressed like a bunch of hoods with leather jackets, tight-very tight, trousers and pointy black cowboy-like boots. Slicked back hair, of course.

One of the singers was locally known to be a touchy little fellow prone to fighting. Tough talk sufffused with sarcasm put some people off. He was the oldest, but not by much. One of the guys was 14 years old.

Anywho, after talking to Brian the scrappy guy says, 'OK. Manage us.'

The Rutles?

Brian Epstein and the Beatles?

The gist off the band started out as 'The Quarrymen'. Evidence of the lead singer's astounding verbal wit because he was, after all, a hard working rocker. They eventually played in 'The Cavern'; a basement dive bar, logging in thousands and thousands of stage hours while worshipping the likes of Buddy Holly and Muddy Waters.

Skiffle is a style of music.

Skittles are candy.

They then cut their teeth in Germany and the rest is history.

The best drummer got sick of the bar scene (and music altogether) but not before giving him a fatal brain tumor.

He was replaced by this sickly, ugly but jovial guy with a big nose and a propensity for cheap jewelry. The lead guy goes, 'If you have your own drum kit you're hired.'

That drummer who died was the *******'s best friend in art school, both having been kicked out of regular school. They shared EVERYTHING, including their girlfriends.

Everybody thinks the ******* took the loss with unusual stoicism, all things considered, as he told everyone who talked about it to just let it be.

Meanwhile the guy who played bass (with a totally wrong technique) simply because nobody else wanted to hooked up with Brian to push their mutual agenda.

Somewhere along the long and winding road in those early days, the skies opened and boomed like thunder to, 'LET THERE BE ELVIS!'.

Years later, but not many-quite less than a decade in fact, a buncha Rollses were all parked on the lawn down in Memphis not giving no satisfaction because not one of the owners had a driver's license.

Jimmy Page started in a Skiffle band. I watched a British TV interview and the host asked him.."what's you name. lad?" "James Page, sir"

Back to the story.

In the very middle, or center if you will, of all this the big record companies got a Knight in the shining armor of classical music whose desire was to be a major philharmonic conductor in on the act specifically to clean up and rearrange the lads' musical output to make it palatable to stuffy Americans.

Brian had earlier made them get haircuts.

'Skiffle!'

Thank you. Going by recall here.

The bejeweled proboscus staggers in one late morning and declares to all present that it was hard day's night.

What the fuch is this thread about?

Geezers enjoying memories...

Lucy was in the sky (with diamonds) while the learned George, not the mystical George, brought in French horns, trumpets and buckets of nails. With billyshears he cuts up hours and hours of magnetic tape; snippets accumulating on the studio floor like confetti for a parade led by Sargeant Pepper in honor of the boys triumphant return from their magical mystery tour.

Sadly, in the fine offices of good Norwegian wood, an onerous yoke appears. All goes helter skelter like a heavy metal anchor crushes a rotten apple core, the music screams to all from a cold and dreary rooftop an end.

And several beginnings.

The music begins to float on the wings of genius and with a profundity beyond what anyone can even imagine.

Then there were three.

The man with a thousand voices stands perfectly still. Guitars gently weep.